Fratterbaijan

We wanna hold your hand.

2010-11-04T07:24:00.000-07:00

Most Peace Corps volunteers in this country would agree that Azerbaijani children aged ten and under are some of the greatest human beings on the planet. Why? Well, think about what makes a kid, a kid. You know, those qualities we cherish. Innocence. Happiness. Loving to have fun. Smiling constantly. Never being shy. These are exhibited in youngins around this country across the board, making me look forward to my sixth grade class with Mrs. Adile.

It isn’t until Azerbaijani kids make it to about eighth grade that you gotta be careful. For some reason, the innocence stops, and boys and girls slip into their “rightful places,” with females being too quiet, and males being…well, sometimes, at least…jerks. Something clicks, and I can’t really put my finger on what it is. Perhaps it’s a “greater” perception of the world around them, of the qualities expected of them, while the typical behavior for those of lesser age is merely labeled as childlike.

I can’t give an exact explanation; all I can really say is that it’s interesting. It also makes the “balıcılar,” or “little ones,” awesome to relate and spend time with. One student in a conversation club brings her ten-year-old sister, Aysel. Not only is she the size of my pinky finger, but she’s also one of the most talkative people I know in the village. And not just talkative in the sense of blabbering off whatever she feels like. She has tact, a sophisticated, conversational way about her that other females of greater age don’t always show. The two of us could walk down the road and talk the whole way. She, and other classmates of hers, speak clearly and audibly, while many older students do not. Mrs. Adile and I often have to tell students to speak loudly ‘cause we can’t hear them. They’re shy and afraid to make a mistake, which makes a short dialogue with Aysel a welcomed change.

And, with this being said, it doesn’t surprise me when I’m running down the street and two tiny children make a request. I saw a little boy and girl walking together a couple weeks ago, so I stopped and said hi. Then the boy looked at me, reached his hand out, and said, “We wanna hold your hand.” What do you say to that? Of course I grasped the young man’s hand, and we walked and talked a short distance to the kids’ house.

There’s something about being a kid, where you don’t really care about where the other person comes from, or what gender he/she may be, or how he talks. You just, well, are what you are, without other people telling you how you ought to be. Seeing those two meter-high children holding hands reminded me that you’d never see that with teenagers in this village, or even married couples. It’s a beautiful sight, a symbol of the universal qualities of children everywhere, who just want someone to walk home with.

And, again, I see an example of qualities that not only affect me and Azerbaijanis in Gumlag Village, but everyone.

Mohawk

2010-08-30T03:44:00.000-07:00

Wow, what a beautiful day, although I’m not outside at the moment to enjoy it. The end of August is a really nice time here, as the weather cools down a lot, but it’s still sunny and green. I must admit, though, that I’m looking forward to fall, my favorite season, which is also very nice here.

One thing that makes this time of year so interesting in Qumlaq is that people are starting to harvest hazelnuts. You know, those little white things they use to make Nutella. There’re many ways to use hazelnuts, and here is where many of them’re harvested. In my own yard, even, there are several nut trees from which my landlord and his family have been shaking the green, husked money-makers to the ground, where everyone, including the three and four year-old grandchildren, pitches in, putting them in little buckets (I must say the sight of those little, wobbly kids picking up the nuts and putting them away is painfully cute.). As I type this entry, in fact, there’s a small mound of hazelnuts sitting in the room next to mine, and, eventually, they’ll be run through a machine to get the husks off, then sold. There’re all kinds of nut buying and selling in the village during this season. Many people take them to the store and exchange kilos of them for everyday products. I’m not sure how fair of a price they’re getting, though.

And that’s pretty much the story here in Qumlaq as of today. People are, generally, healthy and happy, and I can’t complain, either, especially with what happened a few weeks ago.

Did I tell you all that, during A.B.L.E. Camp, the other volunteers and I cut our hair into mohawks? You know, just as a fun, campy thing, we did that, and I must say my hair cuts into a pretty solid mohawk. We went about the week with these funny hairstyles and had a great time, but I noted something interesting. Okay, for one thing, I was concerned at how folks around Azerbaijan (You know, the normal, local folks.) would take to these haircuts. You certainly don’t see an Azerbaijani sporting a racing stripe of hair down the head very often, and, hell, we get stared at enough already. Well, one day, I went into town with some other volunteers to use the Internet and help get supplies. The mohawk slipped my mind, but as we were driving back up the hill to where camp was, I thought for a second and decided, “You know, they didn’t pay any more attention to me than they always do.” And it was the truth. It was just like any other day in the ‘baijan, asking people for directions here and there, maybe getting a stare or two, but nothing out of the ordinary. So what’s up with that?

And it continued. Camp eventually ended, and Charlie and I brought our students back to Oğuz. Once the kids went their separate ways, we split off and had lunch together at a kabob place by the river. We sat there, had lunch, chilled out, and a guy even stopped and chatted with us for a moment, but there was no discussion about our hair, which they had to have noticed. I mean, especially Charlie’s hair, which sticks up enough even without a mohawk. We just looked at each other, dumbfounded, and asked, “What’s going on here?”

Well, we’re foreign, we decided, which, of course, is no news to us. Shoot, on a day-to-day basis, we can’t help but be noticed, in some way or another, as outsiders, and, eventually, we realized having crappy looking mohawks didn’t make much of a difference. We’re already weird enough. Of what significance is a haircut? Not much. So what does this mean? I mean, what’s the bigger picture here? Is there a lesson to be learned?

Hell yes. It means we can do whatever we want, which is liberating. I never realized pulling the foreigner card could free you up so much. I think I’m gonna start wearing an American flag Speedo with large boots down the village road from now on, and if someone questions it, I can just say, “Hey, I’m not your nationality. We have different traditions,” which should derive a long head nod of recognition and understanding from the other party.

This is going to be great.

One of us

2010-08-24T03:47:00.000-07:00

I’m feeling a bit hazy this morning, and I was slow getting up, as last night was filled with food, conversation, and cherry-plum liquor with my landlord and his family. Now, mind you, the women weren’t drinking, but we were, and, though I’m not hungover, I can still kinna taste the brew that made me all tingly with the first shot.

But that’s the small price to pay when you’re having a good time. I have nothing to complain about, as today’s cool just like yesterday, with cloud cover remaining from the day before. People are wearing sweaters in late August. Who’da thought?

But that’s neither here nor there, as I feel I’ve gotta write about something I’ve noticed for a long time, from when Charlie and I first had our tea time interrupted by a crazy looking gentleman who lumbered up to us and yelled, “Bon appetite!” and stared at us for a while.

I don’t know his name, but he’s mentally handicapped in some way and generally goes about the day walking around and scrounging up change. It was a little awkward for Charlie and me while he stood there staring at us (Can’t imagine why.), but he was promptly led away by another kind gentleman, and we went about our business.

But I was impressed at how the community members handled it. I love this country, but folks around here sometimes have varying reactions to different people. But they clearly knew this fellow well and treated him as an equal. No fuss, no nothing. And I’ve also noticed the same behavior with other people. One day I was having lunch at a little joint by the bazaar, and this guy was sitting down having a cigarette with another gentleman across the table. This dude was just going off, rambling like crazy while the other guy just sat and nodded. It was like any other conversation, and the, um, more mentally “with it” guy didn’t bat and eye at his companion.

And there’s another man I see a lot on the buses. He takes the money from the passengers. A heavy-set guy, he does a good job and I believe is deaf. With his high-pitched shrills, he may not derive utter respect from everybody, but most people treat him well. In fact, it was this guy that made me want to write this short entry. I saw him just the other day at the bus station. He was having tea at a table with a bunch of other guys, and the smile on his face has been stuck in my mind for days. It’s just good to see happy people in general, and I’ve learned how important it is to be kind to everyone, whatever their condition.

Project: English Resource Room

2010-08-22T05:56:00.000-07:00

After twenty months of teaching, struggling with the language, and varying progress with teachers and students, it’s good to get a solid, stable project going, where I can help leave a mark on the Gumlag school, my place of work since December ’09.

It’s been an interesting journey, and I’m honestly very proud of my counterparts and students, who’ve been so good to me and have done what I asked. I just like being in a place where everyone’s familiar with one another (I suppose that’s not difficult here.), where I’m respected. It feels good to take on this project to, in the least, say thanks to those who’ve put up with me for so long.

Let me describe what we have going here: an English resource room that’ll occupy one of the second floor classrooms in our lower school building. My mom and dad have been there. It’s where we had a couple conversation clubs the afternoon they visited the school. My good friend Jordan Macha also saw it one day, when I wrote fratty sayings on the new chalkboard. And Carly Edgington, my old AZ5 friend, also participated in a club or two there last summer.

I’ve spent a lot of time here, and so the opportunity to fill some shelves with grammar and storybooks and set up a T.V. and D.V.D. player with some English movies is a great one, one that’ll surely be appreciated by Gumlag’s three hundred something students and four English teachers. Heck, I’ll love it while I’m still here, as I’m dying for some new books to teach these young folks.

It should be an excellent finished project, but here’s the kicker. You see, the funding is coming from a program called Peace Corps Partnership, an organized way to solidify donations from folks back home. Folks like…well…you, the reader. Yeah, I’m also asking for money, if you’d like to donate. Any contribution to reach our $1380 goal would mean so much to us.

You can get more details at the project website: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=314-073

If that link doesn’t work, just go to peacecorps.gov/donate, and search for “Gahan”. At the website, you can read more about the project and donate, if you want. However, despite what the description says, we won’t be doing room repairs with the grant money, as there isn’t enough room in the budget to do that.

Whether you’d like to donate or not, check out the website to learn a little more about our project. I’m excited about it, and I enjoy sharing the idea with those that’re interested. Thanks a lot for your interest and support of our work.

That's not your glass.

2010-08-22T05:54:00.000-07:00

I actually just got a text message from Nərgiz, a university student who comes to conversation clubs at my school while she’s at home. She’s actually at home most of the time, as she only goes back to Baku State University occasionally for testing and paper writing.

She was texting about class tomorrow, as she often does the correspondence work with other students to see who can come to class, especially considering it’s summer vacation and students come and go. She’s a great help, and her family’s also been super nice to me. I visit them often ‘cause they’re such great company, and, really, it’s just nice to be with people that appreciate you, in Peace Corps or anywhere else. I speak mainly from the Peace Corps perspective because, as I go through the day, interactions can be uncomfortable, being the foreigner. Plenty are good; don’t get me wrong. But I just like being at a place like Nərgiz’s house because it’s kind of a haven, a place where I’m just a friend and not an outsider. I can help clear the table or pour my own tea without feeling that awkward “You’re a guest. You shouldn’t do anything” pressure that honestly kinna pisses me off at times. I mean, let’s get serious. Being referred to as a “guest” after living in a place for over twenty months could get to anyone, so I’m not so ashamed anymore at my knee jerking due to someone saying “hello” to me on the street instead of “salam”. Seriously. Not necessary.

And so, like I said, a little comfort here and there goes a long way. That’s why I was pleased one evening while hanging out with Nərgiz’s family. It was a pretty typical night, just sitting around watching T.V. and talking, and we were about to have a cup of tea. Nərgiz brought out the teapot and glasses, and I took one, prompting the response: “That’s not your glass.”

And, at that moment, I realized that was true. I mean, I picked up just a glass that was available, not knowing that “my glass” existed, but as I retraced my days at her house, I concluded that, yes, I’d always had tea from the same glass, one that was different from everybody else’s glass. How interesting. How generous. How…well…friendly.

I mean, that’s the real word here: friendly. They don’t break out the fancy meal on my account or call me a guest all the time. They’re just friends, like anybody anywhere. Your buddies down the street. Your muchachos. I like to think they set a glass aside for me because they might’ve wanted me to come over often. I don’t know. I just know that that polite, almost familial, way of relating with another needs to be contagious in the world, as we often have trouble relating with people that aren’t in our bubble.

I mean, we’re only human, with the same strengths and troubles that make us who we are, with certainly relatable experiences that define our lives, so why should we avoid or act awkwardly around a person that doesn’t fit in our realm? They clearly do. We just gotta figure out how. And if you could look in the other party’s head, wherever he or she may be from, what do you think you’d see? Would they want you to speak to them as an outsider, or as an equal? Think about it. I can say from my own experience that when I’m talking to someone here, I want that person to speak only one language: Azerbaijani. That’s where we are. That’s the language I spent several months learning. End of story. If you wanna honor a guest, make him your equal, and not a spectacle.

A.B.L.E. Camp

2010-08-22T05:53:00.000-07:00

Before summer’s over, I think I’ll have eaten upwards to fifty “yard pears” from my landlord’s property. In July, he and his family began shaking them off the trees and picking them off the ground, and a hefty batch is strewn in a pile on the floor in my refrigerator room (That’s the room with the refrigerator in it.). The pears are kinna tough, but if you put them in the freezer for about twenty minutes (Thank you, Jesse, for teaching me this trick.), they turn perfectly soft and delicious.

But is that what I’m really talking about here? No, not at all. Truth is I feel like I’m in the “eye” of the summer at the moment, as the storm of camps and whatnot have died down, and I’m free to pretty much spend my day as I please. I kinna wanted to get up early today and go hiking, but I decided, after watching Fracture last night, with Anthony Hopkins and Ryan Gosling, that I’d sleep in today. Good decision? That’s debatable, but it was raining this morning, so it wouldn’t’ve been the prettiest hike even if I’d gone.

I am happy, however, for the cooler weather due to the rain. Now, Oğuz isn’t the hottest rayon, but the afternoons can still get pretty steamy in August, so not only do I get to write to you all, but I also get to do it in a more comfortable setting. Not a bad deal, I’d say.

But I’ve been slacking. One of the best things I’ve experienced happened earlier this month, and I haven’t told y’all about it yet. It’s Azerbaijani Boys’ Leadership Experience (A.B.L.E.) camp, and it’s something we plan for all year. Really, it’s many volunteers’ favorite project here in Azerbaijan, and with good reason. In no other place are you in such good company. Let me tell you about it.
Basically, throughout the year, we select, from our respective rayons, promising young men who would benefit from attending a five-day leadership camp. They usually range from ages twelve to seventeen or so. After a lot of fund raising and planning, we bring these young people together at a campsite in Ismayıllı Rayon, which is a real spectacle. Azerbaijani culture doesn’t lend itself much to going to different rayons and getting to know people who aren’t your relatives or classmates. And although it’s a little weird for these boys from all over the country to mix and mingle at first, it really is interesting to see them all together. They’re the cream of the crop, the boys you see in class who’re always raising their hands (Charlie pointed that one out.). It’s wonderful to be around fellows like these, especially when, on a daily basis, you tend to deal with boys who…aren’t such great company.

And seeing them in a totally new environment, away from their parents and daytime T.V., is reassuring for me. It gives them a chance to be themselves, to just be around other boys like them, free of life’s daily distractions, and the purpose of the camp lends to that even more.

With the help of F.L.E.X. alumni (F.L.E.X. is a program for free high school study in the United States.), we structure each day so that the kids get a little taste of everything. In the mornings, we have lessons about community, leadership, service, teamwork, etc. In the afternoons, we have guest speakers come and talk to the boys about any of a number of things, like the environment, creativity, gender issues, etc. And among these more serious activities, we also play plenty of games and enjoy each other’s company at meals and a few bonfires.

Really, it just takes these boys out of the box. I mean, camp stuff like this is commonplace in America. Chances are most of the folks reading this entry have been to camp, where you play sports, eat s’mores, and talk about leadership. But that ain’t on the daily agenda for these boys, whose days are structured around school, afternoon tutoring, and watching T.V., as far as I can tell. And some take to it better than others, I must admit. Some get right in the thick of things and make new friends right away, and others hang out on the fringes, taking a little time to get into it. But in that case, I’d say they’re like young men just about anywhere. Camp brings those qualities out and helps people discover new ones. It’s a beautiful site. It affected me too, as I hadn’t been in an environment like that since Camp Deerwood in New Hampshire and St. Stephen’s Family Camp at Mustang Island. I enjoyed it fully.

Hopefully this project’ll continue as long as Peace Corps stays in Azerbaijan. It’s a goodun.

We've gotten used to you.

2010-07-24T02:00:00.000-07:00

Now, you see, I have Internet in my little abode, which’ll make writing web log entries more convenient, or I’ll at least be able to upload them as soon as I write them. Oh joy.

But I must admit I’m not entirely pleased with the purchase my parents so kindly made for me when we were in Baku together. They were, of course, generous to buy the Azercell DataKart, to make my Internetting easier, seeing as every time I needed to send an email or upload a file, I had to hitchhike to Oğuz, a real crapshoot of a task that could take as long as an hour each way. Yeah, I know, I’m a crybaby, but now I can be…eh…more productive in the comfort of my own “həyət evi” (“yard house”).

But I was expressing my dissatisfaction, see. With regards to the hardware itself, it works fine. You plug it in a U.S.B. port, connect, and you’re on the Web. However, I was informed, as I was putting cash on the “kart” in Zaqatala, that “pul çox gedir” (“Money goes fast.”). Wonderful. So, exactly how fast? Well, judging by my Internet connection records, I burned through ten Manat after about six and a half hours of Internetting. That’s about a Manat fifty per hour. What the f%*#!! Seriously? I can use a computer at an Internet club in Oğuz for forty qəpik an hour. Not only that, but the equipment itself was fifty-nine Manat. Oh, those corporations and their crooked games. Clearly they’ve learned that us consumers are too awed by their flashy bells and whistles to take into account how this will effect our two fifty monthly allowance.

Nonetheless, I’m still happy I have this thing. It saves me the trip if I wanna send a quick email, look up an idea for lesson planning, check out a news story, or upload a web log entry.

Of course, that has nothing to do with this entry’s topic. Nope, I just wanna review a funny line I heard from an old teacher in Qumlaq. Her name’s Cahanə Müəllimə, and she teaches…something. A unique characteristic of this “müəllim” is that she drives a car. Now, female drivers are commonplace in richy rich Baku, with plenty of shade-sporting ladies cruising along the Caspian in their S.U.V.’s, but in the rayons, like Oğuz, pretty much only dudes drive. That’s why I get a kick out of this elderly woman puttering around the rayon in her red Lada. It isn’t like she’s a trendy young dame, pushing the limits by wearing stylish clothes and borrowing Dad’s Mercedes every now and then. This woman wears ankle-length dresses and headscarves, and judging by her passengers, you’d assume she’s driving her closest friends to the next bridge game. Life is full of things that make you smile.

So I was walking down the Qumlaq road one day, like I always do on my way to Oğuz, hoping a car would come by, and Cahanə Müəllimə came by and picked me up in her red Lada (whose design, by the way, hasn’t changed since 1974). A friend or relative was in the back seat, and they were also heading to Oğuz.

I sat next to Cahanə Müəllimə and had a pretty casual conversation: “How’s it going?” “What’re you up to?” “When’re you leaving for America?” “How’s Azerbaijan treating you?” Then she asked, in her nearly gone voice, something about Qumlaq and how I found the people, and I responded that I liked them, of course. Then she told me, “Well, we’ve gotten used to you.”

I kind of laughed at that response and didn’t think about it much until later. What exactly does it mean to “get used to someone”? I mean, I must admit, I’m sure the Qumlaqians had to shift their weight around a little to get used to me, the weird dresser, the runner, the coffee-drinker, the walker-to-towner (though I don’t really do that anymore, due to high river water levels.), the backpack wearer. I’m not sure how many outsiders these folks’ve gotten to know. Around Qumlaq, at least, Azerbaijani is pretty much what you get, a united “millət” (“nationality”), a people who drink çay and who all know the latest on the Turkish soap operas, who enjoy sunflower seeds and watching musicians play their national music on a grassy knoll in Qazax. Yeah, these folks’ve gotten used to the American.

Now, I mean, it may seem like an unnecessary adjustment. Why should they have to “get used to” me, like Cahanə Müəllimə said? I’m just here to help. I just want some respect and a comfortable house. You don’t need to bend over backwards.

But what about the folks who don’t get it? Any volunteer knows what I’m talking about. The dudes who yell ugly words at you on the street, who are so unfamiliar that they stare. My own mother felt conspicuous in Sheki, where grown men peered at her from the fronts of markets, clearly not used to what they saw.

The hardest thing for me at the beginning of service was trying to explain myself, in my broken Azerbaijani, to people who clearly didn’t understand me. I didn’t know if they liked me or not. It kept me up at night, even. “What if I leave, and they speak badly of me?” I thought. It was hard to bare, until, of course, I got used to them, and they did likewise, as this older teacher assured me. I guess it was a two-sided deal. You adjust. I adjust. If any party doesn’t do so, Peace Corps doesn’t work.

But aside from Peace Corps, how many times have you had an ugly encounter with folks who didn’t “get it”, from people ignorant to you and your needs, who didn’t understand you and where you came from? How ‘bout the other way around? You ever look back on a time when you alienated an outsider, refused to let him in? We all might be a little guilty, and that’s what’s made this experience so important. I never really knew what it was like.

What's all that scratching?

2010-07-07T03:05:00.000-07:00

7 July 2010

Man, it’s hot, and I don’t even live in the hotter, considerably flatter part of Azerbaijan. Here in the rayon of Oğuz, we’re right by the mountains and rivers, a little ways uphill from the steamy cities of Mingechevir and Ujar, to name a couple. But still, I can’t deny the fact that I’m sweating my ass off at every corner, except for my bedroom here in the house, with the fan on high, blowing against the back of my Tennessee Titans shirt (You didn’t know I was a fan. Did you?). I was just in class with one ten year old girl who I’d suspect was thinking, the whole, you know, ten minutes we could stand to be in the classroom, “When the heck are we leaving?” We jammed out way early because her cousin was left alone at her house. Azerbaijani’s like to stay close to their guests. None of us wept at the change of plans.

But it’s a small price to pay for summer vacation. I mean, I’m from central Texas, where July days surpass a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I’d still run and sweat in the midday sun along the hills of Sierra West and not give it a thought. To be honest, I kinna liked it, and I still don’t mind it too much around here. Let’s consider the alternative, or opposite, if you will:

Would you rather…

-Walk around on a July day, your wet t-shirt sticking to your back, dying to get in the air conditioning?

or…

-Freeze your butt off in the January coldness, carrying the dishes out to the yard faucet, your hands getting numb from the icy water?

Now, don’t cheat. Human nature dictates you’ll always choose what you’re not in now. At first glance, plenty of you would choose the latter. However, if you were in a bustling crowd of polka dancers in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania on Groundhog Day, you’d choose the former (“Better put on your booties, ‘cause it’s cold out there today.”). The truth is we naturally want what we don’t have. That’s why you get a crush on that girl who used to like you. Okay, this entry needs more direction.

As if the sweltering heat weren’t enough, these peaceful days are disrupted, from time to time, by mysterious scratching noises coming from, literally, inside the desk in my room. I don’t know what they are, and I can’t see a trace of evidence. All I know is that if I pound on the top of the table like this: BOOM! (Sorry, you couldn’t actually see or hear that.), the scratching stops for a minute and starts back up again. It’s like an invisible man is clipping and scraping out his toenails within the thin, wooden piece of plywood that supports my computer and nearly empty can of Nescafe. It’s annoying and concerning. What the hell is it? Any ideas? Termites? Ants? Evil spirits? Flesh eating bacteria? The rotting wood? Though this isn’t a horribly dire concern, knowing would be nice, and I’d appreciate your help.

Then again, I could just ask my landlord.

Summer

2010-06-27T03:20:00.000-07:00

24 June 2010

The time has come…again, and thank heavens! I personally can’t get enough of summer vacation. The weather’s hot. The days are long, and there’s no school. I feel like a kid again. You know what I mean? That…just…summer feeling you get, the kind that, I imagine, fades away when you’re into your working years, having to toil away during the hot months while the young ones play. Does this happen. Well, in any case, I can, at least for a little while longer, relish in summer bliss. It’s not bad.

Really, I’m working a little bit. Honestly it’s not really the lack of work I like so much about summer; it’s just the freedom. I can do as I please. I’m finally making the time to apply for a grant for an English resource room and girls’ computer room. I’m hoping to get a health project going. I got to play softball in Mingechevir. Whoa! That hadn’t happened yet, and what a pleasure it was, not just to play myself but to watch the Azerbaijanis go at it. They were good. They’ve learned well.

My new house also suits me, and why wouldn’t it? It’s my own place with the landlord across the street. It’s got a fridge and a stove on the porch. I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m glad to have a place like this, despite how late in the game it might be. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m comfortable now. Let’s hope it stays that way ‘till December.

And let’s hope all our summers go along nicely. Enjoy yourselves. Take care.

Georgia and Azerbaijan with Mom and Dad

2010-05-30T05:07:00.000-07:00

20 May 2010

You can’t help but smile when the pieces fall into place, when you plan ahead, hoping it’ll turn out okay, and it does. Meeting Mom and Dad in Tbilisi and showing them around Azerbaijan made me happy, as it was the first time for either of them to visit me in a foreign country.

At about 2:45 in the morning on the twelfth, they flew into the Tbilisi airport, and we cruised, in the middle of the night, to our guesthouse. After a long, five-hour slumber, we got up and toured the city with the one free day we had there. It went well, although Tbilisi’s winding streets took some getting used to. We enjoyed its natural and manmade beauty, it’s statues, walls, and churches built on hillsides. I thought Mom and Dad would enjoy Georgia’s strong Orthodox tradition, to which it seems about everyone is devoted. When we entered Trinity Cathedral, with its gold top and beautiful setting on a hill, we sat and watched in wonder as countless people paced through the sanctuary and kissed every icon. Later that day, we went to the same cathedral and enjoyed evening Eucharist. It was beautiful, with several people not only in the congregation, but also participating in the service. Mom and Dad pointed out how many participants, whether they be priests, deacons, or acolytes, would take part for a while, then fall out to talk with their friends outside or do something else. It was like there was a perpetual turnover during the service, which was interesting.

We enjoyed some ajaruli xajapuri (a large crater of fresh bread, melted butter, cheese, and a raw egg…so delicious) and Netakhtari beer that afternoon. Then, after church, with all three of us pretty tired at the end of the day, we went to a restaurant and had some good, red, Seperavi wine, more xajapuri, bread, pork kabobs, and cha cha. Then we crashed.

We traveled for about half of the next day, as we jammed out of the guesthouse early and took a taxi to the Lagodekhi-Balakən border. Our driver drove efficiently, and we got to the border in good time. Crossing the border went fine for all of us, and we were soon off on a Zaqatala marşrutka, where we met a nice Dutch man who shared a taxi with us from Zaqatala to Şəki, where we’d be staying that night.

We were all pleased with the Karvan Saray Hotel, a beautiful, historic place with interesting, almost chamber-esque rooms and a gorgeous outdoor restaurant. Shortly after arriving there, we enjoyed lunch at that lovely restaurant, and, while Mom and Dad napped a little, I changed some money, bought some sweets for us, and we had tea in out room as Mom and Dad were waking back up. We took advantage of the cool evening to see the Xan Saray, a fascinating old palace near the top of the city, and then we rolled back into our quarters to enjoy some sweet Azerbaijani wine, cheese, and bread for dinner. The light dinner was nice, but I managed, for one reason or another, to get deathly ill in the middle of the night. Who knows what it was from.

There was no rest for the weary, though, because we left in a taxi at about seven the next morning to arrive in Qumlaq before school started. We got there in good time and had an excellent time in class. Mom and Dad loved the school, teachers, and students, and that made me really happy. It was really just great for them to see the actual service I and so many other peace Corps volunteers are doing in this country, and the day also ended well with a lovely visit to Firuz’s house, where I used to live. He and his family were very nice to us, and we got to enjoy some aş, one of my favorite Azerbaijani dishes. The family also showed us around their garden, which was especially interesting for Mom and Dad, who enjoy gardening themselves.

I was totally spent at the end of the day, and we all crashed in good time. We had a pretty leisurely morning the next day and left around noon to meet Charlie at a restaurant in Oğuz. I was glad they finally got to meet. After a nice lunch, we walked around town, bought a few goods for my new house, toured the town a bit, and visited Charlie’s host family. Mom, Dad, and I then went back to the village and cleaned ourselves up for another dinner party at Nərgiz, a student of mine’s, family’s house. This family and I have been good friends for a while, and it was awesome for Mom and Dad to meet them. Mom and I got to watch Nərgiz’s mother, Mrs. Qaratel, make a cake, and Mom even got to help the ladies prepare grape leaf dolma. Dad was also taken to see the family’s huge garden. We ate our hearts out, and then some, and I snapped a picture of my mother carrying one of the plates of aş.

I must say Dad also established a friendly connection with Nərgiz’s father, Mr. Yaşar, whom Dad described as very Texan-like. I could see that. We talked pretty late into the evening, and it was no doubt the ideal ending to Mom and Dad’s village experience (especially walking back to the house in the pitch black dark). With good reason, they seemed to enjoy the village most of all.

The next day, we left early (again) to Baku on the bus (Nərgiz even joined us because she was on her way to school.), and Mom and Dad got to see the beautiful scenery along the way. We got to Baku in time to check into the hotel and put our things in our rooms (Charlie was also joining us.). Then we headed out to Ceyranbatan to spend the evening with my old host family there. That was a good time, too. We sat out in the yard, ate delicious lamb kabobs and dolma, got to see the beautiful new fruit trees they were planting, and Mom and Dad basically got to hear over and over again how this host family made sure their home was a comfortable place for me to stay (which it was). A few vodka shots and a cup of çay or two later, we headed back, again tired, to our hotel.

The next day, we had to take care of some travel business. Mom and Dad wanted to fly out of Baku instead of Tbilisi, so they wouldn’t have to travel all the way back to Tbilisi by themselves and figure out what to do there before their flight left. We knew we had to go to the Turkish Airlines office, but we didn’t exactly know where it was. We had the address, but that was only kind of helpful. Charlie ended up calling Ceyhun, our Safety and Security Officer, to find out where it was, and we eventually found it. Though it took a while, Mom and Dad’s flight arrangements were changed, and we got to enjoy some extra time together.

Mom, Dad, and I spent the afternoon checking out the Old City and the many parks that lie around there. They loved this area of Baku, and even I realized, at that time, how beautiful it is. We later met Charlie and had Communion in Mom and Dad’s hotel room, which was Mom’s idea, and a good one at that. Then Charlie hosted us to Indian food at Adam’s, and we had dessert at Café Caramel and walked along the Boulevard, by the Caspian, which was packed with people, before retiring to our hotel rooms. It was another great ending to another wonderful day.

On this final day, we took advantage of the hotel’s free breakfast and visited the Peace Corps office. It was great for Mom and Dad to visit with other volunteers and the staff, including Flora, my Program Manager. We then headed out, had lunch at a Turkish joint, and visited the Old City again to see the Maiden Tower and Şirvan Şah’s Palace. Charlie and I also enjoyed the Palace, ‘cause we hadn’t seen it before, and it was again great to spend time in a part of the city we didn’t know very well. We also headed up to Martyr’s Lane to see the memorials to those who were killed on January twentieth, 1990, and the eternal flame, which, unfortunately, appeared to be out, due to the wind (Baku is the “City of Winds”, after all.). Mom and Dad were also fascinated by an old, beat up Lenin Museum, which, judging by the smell, didn’t appear to derive much respect from the populace. It’s also just a creepy place, with Lenin’s big, protruding head on one of the walls and Stalin shaking hands with a worker on another.

After that, we enjoyed an American-style dinner at Sunset Café and eventually made our way back to the hotel, as Mom and Dad would have to get up in the middle of the night to catch a taxi to the airport. I got up with them at about two thirty and saw them off, which was a sad, albeit sleepy moment.

But what an awesome time it was, as I just relished in being able to show Mom and Dad around Azerbaijan for that period of time. Being the curious, adventurous folks they are, I really enjoyed showing them the ins and outs of where I’ve been living for over a year.

Writing Olympics

2010-05-25T00:44:00.000-07:00

Hey, everybody. I'm again posting an advertisement for a Peace Corps project, but this is also one I really support and appreciate. It's called the Writing Olympics.

In a nutshell, the Writing Olympics is an annual English writing competition for high school and university students throughout the Caucasus. It allows young people to express themselves freely and creatively. In our experiences in the Azerbaijani schools, we can't help but notice a lack of opportunity for personal expression. So much emphasis is put on memorizing the facts for university entrance exams that things like creative writing are often overlooked. For this reason, it's always a pleasure to meet and see Azerbaijani students being creative in any way.

Every year, volunteers at their own schools and organizations arrange the time and place for students to write on a few given topics. Their entries are then submitted, and the more exceptional essays move on to greater, international competitions.

The Writing Olympics has been going on here for years, and it's volunteer leaders in Azerbaijan are trying to expand it, particularly by recognizing the award winners. Peace Corps is going to invite these students for a ceremony in which they'll receive books, dictionaries, certificates, and more, and guest speakers from Peace Corps, AccessBank, and the U.S.-Educated Azerbaijani Alumni Association will also participate.

Aaron McKean and Kim Joyce, the volunteers in charge of Writing Olympics this year, are asking for contributions from willing donors for this event. You can get more information from this post on Aaron's web log.

If you're interested in donating towards this cause, here is the link to the Writing Olympics' Peace Corps Partnership web page. Thanks a lot. Take care.

Inerested in environmental issues?

2010-03-17T07:39:00.001-07:00

Hey, everybody. Some volunteers in the city of Mingechevir are raising money for an environmental event. My friend Alexis works hard to address environmental issues in Azerbaijan via our environmental committee, and this particular event will include an environmentally themed art contest, mural, city clean up, and more. If you're interested in contributing to this event, check out this web page: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=314-062

Adios, and thank you.

Will you take me to America?

2010-03-16T01:47:00.000-07:00

13 March 2010

I’m not sure what I was expecting before I came to Azerbaijan. Well, I mean, considering the fact that I didn’t know much of anything about Azerbaijan before arriving, I guess I was setting myself up for anything, and part of that "anything" would be the set catalogue of questions many people, especially dudes, like to ask the foreigner.

Let me elaborate on one. Can you guess what it is? Wow, you’re good. Yes, it’s true. I come from America, the land of chocolate telephone poles and golden mailboxes. Opportunities out the gonads. I mean, geez, upon getting off the boat on American soil, you got guys swarming you, begging you to take their high-paying, perk-filled jobs. No wonder people wanna be taken to the Land of the Free, and what better escort than the Peace Corps volunteer who makes two hundred fifty bucks a month.

Alright, now that that stream of sarcasm is over, let me just say that this question, "Will you take to me to America?" would be fine if we were asked it, you know, like once a month, but that’s not the case. Heck, my landlord asks me it all the time, and even after repeated "no’s", he keeps asking. I’m not sure why.

First off, I’d like to know why you want to go to America. What would you do there? What would you see? Whom would you meet? How’s your English these days? Who's gonna look after you (An Azerbaijani friend of mine and Charlie's recently sent his wife to Canada to care for hit son who's studying there.)? It doesn’t look like you’re starving here, so what’s the big hurry?
Then I’ve gotten another response to my own questions regarding their desire to go to America: "I’ll ‘receive’ a wife there."

Um, yeah, that’s probably not going to happen. I can see you now, making friends and looking in your Azerbaijani/English dictionary and saying "I’d like to receive a wife." Wonder how that’d go over. It might make you the life of the party, with all the lovely ladies lining up like you’re at the "woman bazaar", but, then again, maybe not.

My next question is this: How are you going to get there? This is where my role in getting them to the U.S.A. comes in. In order to immigrate to another country, you gotta go to the embassy yourself and apply for a visa. If you qualify and receive one, you can buy your plane ticket and go. So where exactly do I come in in getting you to the United States? What, do you think I have visas in my back pocket? They don’t give us "extras".

"You know, you can just tell them I’m your guest."

"No, I can’t do that."

"Why not?"

"Because that’s not how it works."

"Why?"

"Because it’s the law."

"No, come on. Just tell them I’m your guest and take me to America."

"Uuuuuggggghhhhhh!"

"Why are you angry?"

Ha ha. Yes, that was just a random example of how the conversation might go, and I’m not Azerbaijani, so what kind of perspective do I have? I can say, though, that I live here, and I’m pleased by the curiosity people around here have about foreign lands. There’s a good chance you might be talking to a gentleman from Oğuz who’s never left the rayon, or another guy who remembers his military service in Siberia of wherever during the Soviet era and wants to wonder around the globe again. It does someone good to go somewhere else, wherever it may be, and I and many other volunteers can say that some of the best folks in this country are the ones that did the F.L.E.X. program, where you study for a year at a U.S. high school. They come home with all kinds of wisdom and optimism, and they’re a big help.

So, despite my seemingly cathartic portrayal of the lovely conversations I have with the local crowd, I still have to accept that where I am just ain’t America. One’s desire to "be taken to the U.S." may just be an expression of curiosity for a place he’s only seen on T.V. When you look at it that way, it seems pretty normal.

Some things you just have to accept as part of being here, as something you can’t fight or resist. You’re in a different place, and you’re a foreigner. If you try to contort it to fit your needs, you’ll lose.

International Women's Day

2010-03-09T01:14:00.000-08:00

9 March 2010

Alright, anyone who calls this an "international" holiday has clearly never been to the United States, as I hadn’t ever heard of this holiday before coming here, though I must admit it’s on my Peanuts one a day calendar for March eighth. But when I mentioned it to Mom the other day, she also said she hadn’t heard of it, but it’s no big deal. It’s really just a day when the men and boys show some appreciation for the women in their lives, which is cool.

I mean, I just gotta go into some detail here, ‘cause it’s pretty darn cute, about what some of the people do. You kinna feel like you’re going back a few decades. Either that, or the childish giggling you hear from the ninth grade girls sorta makes them seem more like fifth graders, but it’s a different place, here in Azerbaijan, and that’s fine.

Anyway, what am I talking about here? Oh yeah, Women’s Day. Well, one thing I observed as I was drinking my coffee and reading the Monitor last Friday, were the boys from a ninth grade class coming into the back room of the snack bar, where people have their çay, and leaving tea, cake, and presents for the girls. After they left, the girls came in with a teacher and enjoyed what the boys had left. It was adorable. I sat down with them as they sipped from their glasses and laughed giddily at the little noise making stuffed animals their classmates gave them. Their amusement tickled me to death. I mean, I was talking with Mom on Sunday afternoon, and I wondered what it would’ve been like with ninth graders in the U.S. What would they have been doing? How would they celebrate this holiday? I’m not really sure. We have Mother’s Day, but that’s just for moms. How would a bunch of fifteen year olds at, say, Wimberley High School in Texas do this? I really don’t know, but it makes me think.

It’s also nice to see boys, girls, men, and women interacting in such a way in a culture where gender relations are different than in the United States. When I see them getting along like this, it reminds me that Azerbaijanis are people just like Americans or anybody else. The "rules" might be different, but a young man might still be nervous about giving a piece of cake to a classmate, or a girl might anxiously look at a little gift and think, "Oh, that boy’s cute. I wonder if he gave me this." Can you avoid thinking like that, really? I don’t think so. Heck, at twenty-four I even still feel like a teenager sometimes.

So as I finish up this short entry at 3:05 in the morning I still contemplate those emotions, those thoughts and feelings, that we all relate to, giving some legitimacy to every cheesy holiday that makes us go out of our routine to give a Valentine to the girl we like, stand under mistletoe with someone we know likes us, or leave tea, cake, and presents for girls that deserve some appreciation. I’m okay with that.

The Little Ones

2010-01-16T23:35:00.000-08:00

17 January 2010

I’ve come to realize that 2:48 in the morning is the best time to write a web log entry. Why? I don’t know. I just felt like saying that, since it is, in fact, that late.

So I hope everyone’s well, as we ease, slowly but surely, out of the holidays. It’s not exactly a good feeling to step into work the first day after a break, but before you know it, you’re in the groove, and you don’t even think about it anymore. Then again, if you have a job like Dad’s, and your work is Christmas, you may even forget, or not give credit to, the fact that the past holidays included rest and relaxation, for some at least.

I, for one, am getting into the swing of things okay, like the rest of the volunteers, and I’ve recently been thinking about something I’ve just gotta elaborate on.

Kids are great. I mean, seriously, nothing brightens your day like the smiling face of a seven year old. They’re amused by things you’re either too sophisticated or embarrassed to be amused by, and you can’t help but sit back and laugh as they talk amongst themselves. That’s, at least, what I do, most of the time, in a daily, thirty minute class frequented by two fifth graders. These two girls are so hilarious that it doesn’t even matter how bad my day’s been up to that point. They fix everything, and I can never repay them for it, except maybe teach them a little English.

First off, they typically show up about a half hour early, while I’m teaching another class. They’ll knock on the door, ask if they can come in, and about ten minutes after I tell them no, they come knocking again, then I tell them no again, and so on. Sometimes, I let them come in and sit during the other class, but they often occupy themselves with other things. For example, one day they started playing chess with their little travel kit. On other days, they’ll sit for a few minutes, then get up and run in and out of the classroom (for some reason), which doesn’t bother the current class at all.

When their time rolls around, we pick and choose what we’re going to do that day. It doesn’t matter so much what we do, because they’re pretty much down for anything. Nowadays, they’re really into “How do you spell…?” where they ask each other what letters make up each word. What’s great about letting them do something like this, where just the two of them are involved, is that they start arguing with each other about…whatever…and instead of straightening them out (which might not work anyway), I just stand back and watch things unfold. Clearly they’re debating some very big issues, and I don’t wanna get caught in the middle of it. Plus it’s funny, and I need humor in my life.

And despite the amusement I derive from teaching these two, everyone also knows that little kids learn languages better than anyone else, and Fidan and Mələk are no exception. It’s just great to see minds at work, especially at their age, and to see them try so ardently. Makes teaching a pleasure.

Now, my brother’s wife, Sara, is pregnant. Although it may be known by now what gender the baby will be, I, in my unknowing state, could care less if it’s a boy or girl. If it’s a boy, great. We can have uncle-nephew bonding time. But, judging by my experience in Azerbaijan, a girl would be great, too. Perhaps I could teach her and a friend Azerbaijani, and live it all over again.

Pray for those in Haiti.

Teachers' Meetings

2010-01-11T22:10:00.000-08:00

11 January 2010

I’m bringing up this topic more, I think, because I simply feel like writing after a nice dinner at a friend’s house. Especially on rougher days, going "guesting", as we say, at someone’s home can really brighten things up. Not that today was bad. I just felt like saying that.

The semester started out well today. I had three classes with a couple teachers, one of which, Mrs. Ruziya, is a nice, young, woman with whom I’ve barely started out. The administration at my school suggested I start working with a couple young teachers to help them along, and I’m glad to be doing it. They’re nice and appreciative, and we can get some work done.

I had three classes today, although I was supposed to have four, but one was cancelled due to the teachers’ meeting at noon, which I’ll talk about in a minute. They were fine. I asked the students about what they did for New Year’s and where they spent it. Most said they were at home, like many Azerbaijanis, and I wouldn’t’ve minded that myself, had I been able to stay in Qumlaq and not had a meeting in Baku on December thirty-first.

The last class I taught with Mrs. Ruziya today was a "two-in-one", which are always fun. Sometimes, a teacher is ill or just can’t come to class for whatever reason, so they put class ‘A’ and class ‘B’ together at one time. Seeing as you’re with a teacher that doesn’t normally teach the "other half" of the class (And you yourself may not normally teach that other half, either.), an interesting lesson ensues. The extra kids may not have a clue what you’re talking about, which either results in you explaining, perhaps futilely, the material or just going on without them. I mean, the former is probably better, but what are you gonna do with thirty students, half on one page, the other half on another, in one space, not to mention with a teacher that isn’t used to teaching them?

Another thing that gets me are these kids that kinna "show up" every now and then. I may not have seen a young man for two weeks, and then, boom, there he is again, strapped in and ready to learn. I’ve even had my primary counterpart, Mrs. Adilə, call on a kid and ask, "Who are you?" since he’s only around once in a blue moon, or may have only showed up one time ever. It’s this lax stance toward education that gets me when I think about it. When I picture myself growing up, I can’t imagine being in a school where kids just kinna "come and go", or lessons get rescheduled due to…whatever…and I end up finishing the day a class short because I didn’t know. But like most things in life, I’ve adapted to it, as all folks must do, and it’s become "normal" for me. Why should I complain, anyway? This isn’t America. This isn’t the American education system (which has issues too, eh?). I come from one place that does its thing and now live in another place that does another thing. And while I may stop, think, and throw a fit about how different it can be here, I’m not gonna be so ridiculous as to declare one thing "bad" and the other thing "good". I gotta live in the context of my situation. I gotta accept it and provide what I can. This isn’t a fatalistic, "Oh well, I tried" attitude, either. I’m just saying you gotta understand where you are.

And one part of Azerbaijani education, which you got everywhere else, too, are teachers’ meetings. Yep, they don’t skip out on those, either, though I’m not always a full participant. In fact, I’m never a full participant, because, a lot of the time, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I just awkwardly sit there, with a sincere look on my face, nodding when I think something important’s been said. Though I can speak conversational Azerbaijani okay, I can’t understand "meeting Azerbaijani" much at all, which might explain why I left today’s get together early.

Basically, what happens is all the teachers gather in the teachers’ room. Some chairs get moved into the center of the room to accommodate everybody. When everyone’s seated, the director comes in, and when he enters the room, all the teachers lift their rumps out of their chairs and kinna rearrange themselves slightly, out of respect. This may sound kinna weird, but you may know what I mean if you saw it, and I know every Peace Corps volunteer is familiar with this kind of "respectful rump rearranging", or "R.R.R." for short.

As far as what happens next, your guess is as good as mine. Today, I think Fəxrəddin Müəllimi (our director) was talking about the results of recent state testing. Seeing as this had just about nothing to do with me, I left before everyone else, which I don’t regret too much (In fact, I’d say I regret not leaving earlier.). One day Charlie went to a teachers’ meeting, and after he left, I asked him, "How was it?" and he said, "I learned we’re no longer supposed to grade in pencil." I’m sure he was relieved.

I don’t know. I guess this just kinna goes back to the differences between two places. Number one, there’s a language barrier. Number two, they’re talking about stuff that doesn’t apply to me so much. And yet, I still feel I should be there. You know, I wanna be part of the group. And even though I cut out early today, at least I got to check it out. Perhaps that’s the moral of this story. Check it out. Check it all out. You never know what you may see.

Christmas in Tbilisi

2010-01-10T05:09:00.000-08:00

10 January 2009

I’m digging on the quietness of twelve seventeen in the morning on January tenth, two thousand ten (It is a new year, isn’t it?). Well, I guess the rumbling of the radiator in the corner is the only other noise besides the sound of my typing, but at least the other noises that exist on a piece of property with six people are yoxdur (nonexistent) at the moment. Like I said, I’m digging it.

Tonight, I’m gonna talk to y’all about a little trip I took with Charlie these last few days. The title of this entry says it all, and, I must say, it was a kick ass trip. Couldn’t’ve asked for anything more out of about forty-eight hours in the capital of Georgia, and let me tell you why.

I met Charlie at the Oğuz bus station at about eight o’clock on the morning of the sixth. It was a cold day, and we were glad to be in the heated marşrutka headed for Şəki at eight fifteen. Upon arriving in our neighboring rayon, we immediately hopped on another marşrutka bound for the beautiful (and sexy) rayon of Zaqatala, which is just a couple rayons over from Georgia. We ran into a bit of turbulence at the Zaqatala bus station, mainly due to our own stupidity. When we got there, I quickly asked the dispatcher how we could get to Tbilisi. He told me we had to go to Balakən, the next rayon over. No problem, I thought, and we went over to the Balakən van and saved our places with our sleeping bags (totally legit). Then we went to a nearby store and grabbed a snack or two for the road, but once we got back to the bus station, the van was leaving, full, and I angrily banged on the driver’s side window and asked where our sleeping bags were. The driver didn’t stop or open the window and just pointed behind him (which pissed me off), and, lo and behold, our sleeping bags were sitting there on the sidewalk in front of where the van was parked. What a bummer. Luckily, these marşrutkas leave frequently, so we simply saved a couple spots (with our sleeping bags, again. Still totally legit.) on the next van and went and had a pot of tea at a çayxana (You see where this is going.). Surely they wouldn’t leave without us again. Well, yeah, we clearly didn’t learn our lesson the first time because the damn sleeping bags were sitting on the sidewalk again, and we were left behind again. Oh, how foolish of us. The third time was a charm, though, ‘cause we simply sat on the van and didn’t move once the next one came around. A few minutes later, we were in Balakən, a rayon, up ‘till now, seldom frequented by Peace Corps volunteers, quite beautiful, if I may say so myself.

We took out some money in town and were soon at the border, which we passed through easily. This was the third time we’d done this, and we’re still amused by the contrast between the Azerbaijani and Georgian border patrols. On the Azerbaijani side, men (and boys) in military garb, hoisting large guns and smoking cigarettes, take a look at your passport, don’t check your baggage, and let you though at their leisure. The Georgian side is a bit more, eh, organized. We all stand in line, the officer quickly stamps our passport while sitting next to a fancy computer with a camera we have to look at for identification, and our bags get scanned by some high dollar machine from Japan. We quickly were through the border and haggling with the Azerbaijani-speaking cab drivers about rides to the town of Lagodekhi (the first rayon you hit in Georgia).

Once we got in town, we began deliberating over how we’d get to Tbilisi, which is about two hours away (depending on how fast you drive). We initially thought to take a marşrutka, which was just seven Lari (the Georgian currency), but we were discouraged because we wanted to get to the city as quickly as we could and the van wouldn’t be leaving for another forty minutes. We then discussed the possibility of taking a taxi to Tbilisi with nearby cab drivers who surrounded us as if we could restore sight to the blind. We cut one driver down to a decent price (thanks for Charlie’s Russian skills), but after we put our bags in the trunk, he was in no hurry to leave. I suppose he was waiting for more passengers to come along so the trip would be more worth his while. Can’t blame him, but we eventually decided, after waiting a little while, that we might as well take the marşrutka, and that’s what we did. And before the marşrutka headed out of Lagodekhi, we had the good fortune of meeting an adorable, sweet, girl who was born in…(cough)…the nation just below Georgia. Her name was Christiana, and she could speak five languages, including Polish (I couldn’t even tell you what Polish sounds like.). She was excited to meet handsome, charming Americans like us, and helped us with purchasing a bag of chips at the store. You never know who you might come across.

The drive from Lagodekhi to Tbilisi was pretty awesome, if anything, because we got an intimate glimpse of the rayons of another country (And I’ve come to realize, also, that everything looks cooler if you’re listening to Dark Side of the Moon while viewing it.). We got into Tbilisi at about five or so, and used the cell phones of two kind gentleman before finally meeting our CouchSurfer, Vasi, near her apartment right next to Vake park. Now let me tell you about Vasi. Oh yeah, and if you’re not familiar with CouchSurfing, it’s a global network of individuals that willingly host travelers for free in their homes. Pretty sweet. Anyway, our hostess, Vasi, is a twenty-six year old badass who works for International Orthodox Christian Charities. Yep, we got extra lucky this time around. We came to Tbilisi to check out Orthodox Christmas, and our CouchSurfer just so happened to be a committed Serbian Orthodox Christian, and a sweetheart at that. She took us in, was very pleased with the wine we bought her, and provided us with hot showers when we desired (hell yes).

Shortly after putting our stuff down, Vasi walked with us down the road and showed us where we could find something to eat. She eventually returned to her apartment (It was cold.), and we soon found a little eatery, where we ordered up a couple beers and some cheese and bean xajipuri. As we were sitting there, eating and shooting the breeze, a gentleman, who spoke great English, asked us where we were from. The guy’s name was Shalva, and he’d lived in Atlanta for a number of years. He was a heck of a nice guy, so nice that he bought us dinner (more than once). He was also friends with the president of Caucasus University in Tbilisi, and he randomly picked me up from a restaurant one night and drove me to his office so I could meet him. We ended up seeing Shalva a few more times during our stay in the city.

After dinner, we chilled in the apartment and chatted with Vasi before Charlie decided to take a shower and Vasi went for a nap (with good reason, considering what Georgian Christmas entails). We left for midnight mass at about ten forty-five, because Charlie and Vasi were going to have confession with the priest before mass started. Well, that didn’t pan out so well because once we got to Vasi’s church, everybody, and I mean everybody, was there. May I add that, although I’ve lived in three Latin American countries and middle Tennessee, Georgia is undoubtedly the most Christian place I’ve ever seen. The churches are packed, and you can only guess what Christmas is like. We waited outside the front door of the church like we were waiting to get into the hottest club in town. We had a feeling we wouldn’t be able to squeeze in, but, I’ll be darned, we made it in the church and mass started soon after. We were packed so tightly in the sanctuary that we didn’t even have to try to stand (May I add it was standing only, the standard Orthodox style I’m guessing.). Charlie couldn’t even cross himself, at least not all the way.

The service was beautiful, fully loaded with incense and a thousand and one Georgian chants. I even started singing along after a while, although I had no idea what the words were. Sometimes I just had to look around at all the people there. There’s something profoundly beautiful about the Orthodox tradition. The idea that all the people, everyone in the neighborhood, is in there, standing together in one place, was moving for me. The fact that the seventy some odd years of the churchless Soviet era has been followed up by this kind of commitment to church life is pretty amazing.

After Vasi received the bread and wine communion mixture from a golden spoon, we headed out of the church and received free shots of wine and little pieces of bread and met Vasi’s friend who works with her at I.O.C.C. This gentleman’s name was Archel, and he was a class act who took us around the city after church. We first went to the massive Sameba church, which was beautiful and boasted some of the best chanting I’d ever heard. We hung around there for a little while, and Charlie pointed something out about the Georgian Orthodox tradition. It seems like, for Protestants and Catholics, at least, church is a pretty formal place. You go into the church to worship, not necessarily to socialize. We noticed, however, that this humongous church was full of people who were either praying, chanting, venerating (a hobby of mine), or just hanging out. Plenty of folks, particularly teenagers, were sitting on the floor, just chatting. It kind of gave a different meaning to what we initially conceptualize as the worship space. That night, it seemed more like a community center (That is, a community center where people waited to pray for healing by the remains of a saint like they were waiting to get Jerry Garcia’s autograph.).

After that, we headed to a restaurant to bring in the birth of Jesus in genuine Georgian fashion, by drinking vodka and easting delicious food. The restaurant was packed with people, old and young, participating in post-mass revelry (I think you’d do the same, too, wouldn’t you?). Mind you, it’s three o’clock in the morning at this point, and seeing as I’d gotten up at six in Oğuz, I had to order a Turkish coffee to keep up, and I’m glad I did, ‘cause we got our good eatin’ on and our good drinkin’ on. We had some kind of chicken soup that was simply to die for, pork kabobs (That’s right. Pork kabobs.), two kinds of xingali (round dumpling like things with meat or cheese inside), beer, and vodka. Couldn’t complain about that. When we were finally bursting with gastronomical pleasure, we rolled out of the restaurant, and Archel dropped us off at Vasi’s apartment. We ended up chatting ‘till almost seven in the morning, and I crashed hard when we finally hit the sack.

We got up the next day, and after a little breakfast, we went to Vake park and hiked up to Turtle Lake, a beautiful body of water with some nice restaurants around it. I tried to run up the hill towards the lake, and was humbled by nearly keeling over from being so winded. After a cappuccino by the lake, we headed down the hill and met a good friend of Vasi’s. This was an interesting situation because this girl couldn’t speak English. However, she lived in Barcelona for some time, so she could speak Spanish. While hanging with her, I comically stumbled through my, now, crappy Español, which was kinna funny.

We ended up spending much of the evening with Vasi and her friend. We walked around town with them and came back to the apartment and hung out some more. She eventually headed out, and we stuck around the bachelor pad and drank way too much together, and we all ended up crashing around…I don’t even remember what time it was.

The next day, we casually got up and had a lovely breakfast, which included bacon, another pork product. Archel came over briefly and ate with us and chatted, and Charlie and I soon after got our stuff together and headed out the door. We hugged Vasi, our new best friend, and rolled over to where our taxi to Legodekhi would be leaving from. We crossed the border into Azerbaijan once again at around six that evening and ended a pretty dang good trip to Georgia.

What I'm Thinking About

2010-01-02T01:49:00.000-08:00

Good day, campers! Rise and shine (although I'm not sure what time of day it will be when you read this...if you read this)! Better put on your booties, 'cause it's...unseasonably warm in Baku. At this time last year, we were finally rolling out to the rayons on this day. There was a freakin' blizzard in Baku (We were embarrassingly falling all over the sidewalks.) last year, and we were stuck here for an extra night, which wasn't too bad because we got to chill in the Peace Corps lounge, with its D.V.D.'s and Internet. Oh yeah, and our friends were also there, but who needs friends when you have that kind of electronic stimulation? I mean, you should look at us now in my buddy Corey's apartment. We're connected to Dlink's (whoever that is) wireless (which only works in one room of the house. You have to understand the geography of leeching others' Internet.). Two computers are sitting open on the kitchen table, and I'm son a bed next to Mariel, an AZ7, who has a computer sitting on her lap. We aren't talking to one another, and why would we?

So what's it like in old Azerbaijan these days, anyway? One one note my friend Corey, who has the sweet apartment in Baku, was a volunteer in the rayon of Davachi. He eventually decided to give that up and take a job in Baku teaching English at Baku Oxford school. Considering the fact that he makes over a thousand Manat a month now and he's spending time in the classroom with students that speak great English, I wouldn't say his decision was too bad. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that his apartment is simply lovely, with a washing machine. Seriously, a washing machine. Have you heard of these things? They're simply wild. You take your clothes and put them in there with a little soap. The clothes get shaken around for a little while and, voila, they're clean. I've never seen anything like it. They must run on witchcraft or something.

Anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, I guess I can't entirely blame Mr. Corey for putting a halt to the Peace Corps gig and taking up a nice job in the big city. I mean, considering how often I come and stay in his apartment, my feelings can't be too negative. He's a good dude.

Okay, I'm not gonna lie here, people. I don't know what I'm doing at the ol' computer right now. I simply decided, with the quick access to Internet, to just get on the web log and write. I've also been enjoying myself pretty thoroughlly in the Baku for the past couple days, which, as you can imagine, can put one in an interesting place.

So what's it like in January in Azerbaijan? Well, let me tell you this. You see, January is the month after December and before February. It's also the first month of the year. Last year, I don't recall doing anything in January, besides starting to teach and being overwhelmed by the amount of time I'd be in Azerbaijan. When you're unsure of what the heck you're doing but entirely sure of exactly how long you'll...uh...be unsure of what you're doing, your spirit goes into a, to say the least, interesting place, but that's life, eh? Mountains and valleys, strikes and gutters, you know. I can honestly say, at this point, that I'm glad I'm here and most certainly happy I've stayed in this lovely country through the ups and downs.

I'm pretty much planning on not doing much for the next couple months. By "not doing much", I mean I don't think I'll be going anywhere too exotic, unless you count Ismael's market in downtown Qumlaq exotic. Sometimes he has chocolate covered dates in his store. I mean, that's pretty crazy, huh? What's next...uh...tacos stuffed with...eh...peanut butter? Okay, my attempt to be witty has failed, although I must say that, after eating the same three Azerbaijani meals for over a year, I probably wouldn't turn down a peanut butter taco. It's actually not a horrible idea. You're pretty much just taking the best of Mexico and America and putting them together. At last. Okay, that was truly unnecessary.

Alright, now I really don't know what I'm talking about or why I even sat down at the computer to write this stupid thing in the first place. I humbly apaologize to anyone who's actually reading this. I swear, if anyone were to open up my head and peer in, I fear it would be similar to splitting an atom. Sure it looks harmless at first, but just crack that thing open and all kinds of nonsense would burst out. I don't recommend it, which might justify my quitting to write at this very monent, for mine and your sake.

Seriously, you're free to navigate ("Navigate". There's a great word for surfing the Internet. What are we? Sailors?) away from this web log and go check out Wikipedia at any time. I mean, how else are you going to know about major court cases in Madison County Mississippi in September of 1965, or who the governor of Montana is? This knowledge doesn't just teach itself.

Alright, I guess I'd better log off and figure out what I'm going to do today. I'm sorry if you're on the brink of dozing off on your keyboard. I mean, if you do, just make sure your nose doesn't land on one of the keys. It'd be embarrassing if someone were to walk by you at your computer to see ten thousand commas on the address bar. I don't think the Internet would recognize that.

Music

2009-12-28T02:16:00.000-08:00

27 December 2009

When life comes to mind, music comes to mind. Music is the glue that holds our sanity together, I’d say. My buddy Charlie talks about how putting the old i-Pod in his ears every now and then really calms him down. In fact, without it, he admits he goes a little crazy. I can see that. In this day and age, our lives take on an almost cinematic tone, with background music going along with our moods. When your girlfriend breaks up with you, what do you do? You throw on some Postal Service and sit there with your forehead against your desk, sadly contemplating where you went wrong. If you’re the type that walks around with headphones in his ears, what do you do on a sunny afternoon as you’re carelessly meandering about? You play that Chicago song about walking in the park on Saturday repeatedly, grinning from ear to ear as the music blissfully amplifies the situation. We move with music like a roller coaster, our hearts jumping out of our chests with excitement and heartbeats slowing down considerably as the ride eases up, giving us a warm, secure feeling. And then there’s all that space in between. No matter what the situation, there’s a song.

So it’s no wonder one of the striking features of a new culture is the music people listen to. Wherever it may be, people love their tunes, and Azerbaijan’s no exception. You can hear their traditional monster ballads blaring from a wedding palace on any given day, the typical ensemble consisting on the zurna (a long horn that makes a bagpipe-esque noise), sas (a sweet, light sounding guitar type thing), and some big ass drums. These instruments, combined with a high pitched male or female voice, come together swimmingly for your listening and wavy-arm-dancing delight, and in the wedding palace, it’s so loud that you sooner or later find yourself yelling to the person next to you, “Please pass me a napkin!” But, thankfully, you’ve had so much vodka by that point that you could care less if the napkin makes it to you or not.

I’ve gotten to the point, personally, where I dig the Azerbaijani music. If in the right context (A.K.A. not coming from a nineteen year old dude’s cell phone in a bus from Qəbələ to Şəki), it’s pretty enjoyable for me. Upon emerging from the bedroom after a good night’s sleep, if some traditional Azerbaijani music is going on the tube, I’m cool with it. It’s a good way to wake up and get in the I’m-in-Azerbaijan spirit, and I gotta say it’s great to regard the local arts that way. I mean, if I hated the music, that wouldn’t be cool because I, well, live here, and whether I like it or not, the music exists and it will enter my ears, even if I have earplugs made of titanium.

You might as well embrace these little things that make your experience complete.

It's Christmas again.

2009-12-25T05:12:00.000-08:00

25 December 2009

This is John Hugh Gahan III, Azerbaijan Peace Corps volunteer, 2008-2010, wishing people of all faiths a Happy Christmas. And what exactly does Christmas mean for all of us out here in this little country sandwiched between Russia and Iran like the bacon in your club sandwich (except there’s no bacon here. crap.)?

Well, I can say we still take on that same holiday spirit we had before leaving our home countries. This kind of thing sticks with you, and we, of course, are also here to support and remind each other that Christmas is here and we’d better get in the mood. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. I mean, heck, if we so chose to, I can honestly say that my rayon mate Charlie and I could’ve passed December 25th like any other day and not given it a second though. Thankfully, that’s not what we’re doing.

Out here in this little country, folks are meeting at different places to celebrate together. Like last year, Charlie and I will be in Şəki with several other volunteers, and it’s gonna be a rompin’ good time. Şəki has a nice hotel with some good eatin’ we’ll hopefully enjoy, and I also anticipate some Secret Santa action. Whoever receives the salted peanuts, hazelnuts, and two Carlsberg brewskies from me is gonna be lucky, let me tell you.

Yep, it outta be fun, no matter where we are. Signing up for this commitment assumes you’re willing to spend times like this away from home, and that’s no problem. To be honest, it has its good side, for me at least, in that I get to reflect on such occasions and appreciate them more. Kinna cheesy, huh? Even so, it’s very true.

And let’s not forget the meaning of Christmas, laid out plain and clear to Charlie Brown by Linus after the third or fourth spontaneous dance party, which spans borders and cultures worldwide, from Catholics in Chile, to Pentecostals in Oklahoma, to Orthodox Christians in Russia, and Anglicans in Singapore, that gives light to everyone despite seemingly overwhelming darkness. You can be anywhere, and nothing can overcome the great gift that we remember on this lovely day.

So Merry Christmas everybody. Enjoy it without reservation.

Coffee

2009-12-25T05:11:00.000-08:00

23 December 2009

Ahhh…nothing like municipal election day. While Qumlaqians are at the school casting their votes, I’m in the quiet house, with only the roaring sound of my, no doubt, pre-Azerbaijani-independence radiator to distract me, and that’s really just a soothing noise that’ll hopefully put my mind at ease while I write to you.

The title of this entry tells it all. I’m a fan of coffee. It’s one of those American habits that I just haven’t given up while being away (except for Lent. But that’s different.).

Being a coffee drinker has brought attention here, simply because people really don’t care for it in this country. Perhaps they would if they gave it a chance, but they seem satisfied with the several glasses of tea they consume each day. No big deal.

It’s amazing how different you can make yourself look by doing things that people in America wouldn’t even bat an eye at. Let me give you an example. There’ve been at least a couple days in the however many months I’ve lived in Qumlaq in which I’ve carried a coffee cup with me and sipped it while walking to school. Though there’s nothing bad about doing that, it’s certainly not something anybody ever does around here, and, therefore, it caused several folks to give me a double take. I can remember one day last summer when my landlord’s little nephew, Famil, saw me with an empty cup in my hand and said, “Hey, look. He has a cup in his hand,” as if it was so strange. I suppose it was in his eyes. I’ve also had a boisterous older dude yell out at me as I passed him and his posse on the road, saying, “Where’s the coffee?” When you’re having a so-so day, that’s not so great to hear.

But let’s look at the other side of things. Some folks show positive interest in the lovely smelling, dark brown granules I mix with boiling water every so often. They’ll open the Nescafé container, breathe deeply, and ask, “Did this come from America?” I tell them no, and that I simply buy it from a market in town. The dude who works at the snack bar at the school asks me for some every time I bring it with me. Then there’s another teacher that takes one when it’s around. I mean, I’m not sure why, but, heck, who gives a damn? I tend to think these people may never’ve had a cup of java in their lives, but what do I care? I like it. Why can’t they? Another teacher that had a cup with me asked while we were in the teachers’ room, “Hey, John. How ‘bout we go have some coffee, eh?” Kinna like we were manly men, going off to do what manly men do. Just last night, while hanging out at a friends’ house, three members of the family, including the daughter, had some Joe after dinner.

Okay, none of this is very important. I didn’t even do anything, really, but perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that I may have “developed” Qumlaq to a certain degree. If not everybody speaks perfect English by the time I leave, perhaps they can at least give themselves the right to choose, while in a çayxana or the canteen, between coffee and tea. That’s democracy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to mix up another mug of instant delight, because I choose to.

A Play in the Dirty, Dirty South

2009-12-21T23:15:00.000-08:00

21 December 2009

Hello, again. After a little absence, I’m getting back on the wagon to tell you about the trip I made this past weekend. It was a goodun’.

For some time, one of my old friends from our “cluster” in Ceyranbatan had been advertising a performance, in English, of The Wizard of Oz. This volunteer, Jordyn Ginnity, studied theater in high school and college and has had a drama club going on at his site for a while. Considering his expertise, I thought it’d be worth making the long trip to check out the play. Not only could I witness a creative endeavor for a T.E.F.L. volunteer, but I could also check out a part of the country I hadn’t seen.

So I set out at eight o’clock Saturday morning from Oğuz to hopefully make it to Neftçala, a rayon about three hours south of Baku, by three that day to see the play on time. The dispatcher at the Oğuz bus station recommended I take a Baku marşrutka from a town called Xaldon, where people catch a lot of rides going every which way. On the road from Xaldon to Baku, there’d be a place I could get off that would be a straight shot, more or less, to Neftçala.

I did just that, but, according to the marşrutka driver, I’d just have to ride all the way into Baku and catch a ride to Neftçala from there. Oh, well. So I arrived at the new Baku bus station, took an hour-long city bus across town, and finally got on a van bound for Neftçala. I ended up getting there at around six o’clock, a ten-hour trip, more or less. Thankfully, there’d be another performance the following day.

It was interesting to go from the Greater Caucasus, where I live, to the Really Flaticus, where Jordyn lives. It’s like you’re driving along the Gulf coast of Texas, except there aren’t as many F-150s on the road. There was a great deal more oil equipment to my left as we were traveling south, and despite what many would call a less aesthetically pleasing ride along the Caspian coast, I felt a sense of peace as the sun was going down. Maybe it was the change of scenery. I don’t know.

When I finally made it, Jordyn greeted me and took me to his host family’s house. He lives in a nice place with nice people, and, better yet, he and the fam were making pizza that night. You gotta admit it’s pretty cool to make pizza with your Azerbaijani host mom, not to mention one that really knows how to prepare the dough.

After a nice evening of good food and conversation, we eventually hit the sack and rose the next morning for breakfast and a tour of the rayon. We, however, were derailed upon arriving at School #3, where Jordyn serves, by some concerning news. Jordyn’s director told us that the director at School #1, where the play was being held, wouldn’t allow the performance to happen that day because there was supposed to be a meeting. This was alarming, considering it was written, in black and white, that the play was to be held for three days, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Despite what may be on your work agenda, you can’t just tell a hundred spectators there’ll be no play due to a “meeting”. So Jordyn and I walked over to School #1 to figure things out, and, like Jordyn’s director told us, School #1’s director insisted there couldn’t be a play that day. Considering what was agreed upon at the beginning, this pissed Jordyn off, and he and the director got into a verbal altercation, culminating in the director trying to physically throw Jordyn out of the school.

This didn’t make either of us happy, and I’d be damned if I was gonna travel ten hours and not see a play. We marched back to Jordyn’s school and assessed the situation with his director. We tried to figure out where we could have the play that day and decided we could have it in the School #3 auditorium, which was a bit more…rustic…than School #1’s auditorium.

However, School #1’s director called us back over, so we rolled up our sleeves and headed back there. He told us we could have the play, just as long as we’re out of there promptly and clean up after ourselves.

This was a huge relief, and Jordyn could pat himself on the back for standing up. Clearly he got through to the man. I got there an hour early so I could meet the actors and actresses. They were all nice kids and were excited about what they were doing, and with good reason. The play was very well done, with great costumes and scenery. It was also very entertaining, as it kept the one hundred some odd people’s attention. I was impressed with Jordyn’s direction and the students’ performance. You could see from how they acted that they were doing something unique that they were proud of, and that’s huge in our work.

It’s really lovely to be able to take kids off the beaten path a bit. Whether it be teaching English a different way to having them perform The Wizard of Oz, it’s great to see them shine in something they aren’t used to. It gives hope for all people.

I also got to hang out in the east Texas of Azerbaijan, and that’s pretty cool, too.

The Guesting Teacher

2009-10-24T23:34:00.000-07:00

This entry might be relevant for all you teachers out there…or…maybe really for anyone with a steady job. It’s about a change every now and then, and, hey, a little change never hurt anybody.

Anyway, what am I getting at here? Good question. I wanna reflect on something Dad told me years ago when I started working for AC&T, an oil company in Hagerstown. He told me it’s pretty easy to go to work on your first day. What counts, though, is getting up and going the next day, and the next, and so on, even when you don’t want to.

Seeing as Peace Corps is my first job out of college (We’ll leave out any complications and just say that Peace Corps is a job, okay?), this is really my first consistent, year-round commitment. It is my job. I must get up every school day and teach eighth, ninth, and tenth formers with my counterpart, and as I go about each day, my dad’s words reverberate in my head.

Let’s go back to January. The New Year’s holiday was over, and it was my first opportunity to stand in the front of the class in Qumlaq and teach the students. I remember that day so well. I had my snazzy new black coat on, and I gave an enthusiastic, entertaining lesson. It was fun.

Eventually January turned into February. February into March. So on and so forth. I mean, I love the kids, but, every day? Every day I gotta put together a decent lesson and make the kids learn. I gotta sit in the teachers’ room and be sociable. I gotta have patience when the students don’t understand or when they act out. Not only do I have to do this every day, but I gotta do it at the same, tiny school in Oğuz rayon, Azerbaijan.

That’s not a bad thing. Everyone’s got their responsibilities, their places in the world.

But we can flip to the other side and say that change ain’t bad either, right? I mean, c’mon. We’re Americans. We run on change. And by change I don’t necessarily mean dropping everything and seeking something radically different. It can simply mean a different look, flashing your eyes in another direction.

Charlie and I had a teachers’ meeting a couple weeks ago. It was a small group of teachers, mostly from villages, and it was a productive meeting. While there, I met a lovely young woman named Humay. She teaches in a village called Kərimli, just up the road from Qumlaq.

This lady was very nice and motivated, so I offered to visit her school. She enthusiastically said yes, and I got up the following Tuesday and headed to the village.

It’s a bigger community than Qumlaq, with a bigger school. Upon arriving, some students showed me to the teachers’ room, and I sat quietly and waited for Humay to get there. When she arrived, we headed to a sixth form class (ages eleven and twelve), full of bright-eyed students, and we had a great lesson. The kids were pumped to have a newcomer at school, and they tried their best. After class, they swarmed me and asked all kinds of questions. Like me, they were getting a new perspective.

It’s also good to see folks like this in our line of work. As we go about the daily grind, we can fall into labeling ourselves and our counterparts as “unmotivated”. That’s a matter of personal opinion. But it revives the soul to be with folks who are genuinely motivated and want to do well. Humay doesn’t have to try. She can simply come to school, throw some lessons from the text at the kids, and head home. Humay does her best, though, and that says a lot about her. It kept me in check. It kept me on the ball when it’s easy to get off.

What am I talking about? Am I just talking about a nifty visit to another school? Well, yeah, I’m talking about that, but I also wanna encourage anyone to take a different look at things. If you’re a university student, visit a class at another school. If you’re a churchgoer, go to a different one on a Sunday. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Visit someone you barely know. Use new dental floss. Shop at a different grocery store. Whatever you want. Even if you step out, disapprove, and step back in, you weren’t really hurt in the process, right? Give it a shot. It might jar something loose in you.

Pat's Son

2009-10-03T22:24:00.000-07:00

3 October 2009

Hmmm…I guess with yesterday being my Dad’s birthday, this entry has more relevance.

First off, I’m sorry to have taken such a long hiatus from my web log. If I had a good excuse, I’d give it, but I don’t, so I’ll just keep typing and hope you forgive me.

I think I might’ve touched on the importance of family around here. Not that it isn’t important where I’m from, but something happened the other day that made me smile. Let me break it down to you.

It’s become my custom to hitchhike back and forth from Qumlaq to town. That’s proven to be the easiest mode of transportation. Typically if I’m walking down the road, waving at each car that goes by, somebody picks me up pretty quickly. Sometimes I gotta pay them; sometimes I don’t. It just depends on the driver. You may question the safety of hitchhiking, but I can assure you it’s less dangerous than crossing the river on the way to town that, since the rains of last spring, became considerably more “raging”. Besides falling one time and getting my pants wet, I resorted a few times to crossing that damn river by means of a gas pipe. It scared the heck out of me, so much that I decided to figure something else out. Hitchhiking was the answer.

So, anyway, one day I caught a ride on the last leg to Qumlaq with a good friend of mine. We happily greeted each other, and I was curious to see unfamiliar faces in the car. Not that I know everybody in town, but I suspected a full car heading into the village during the end of Ramadan probably meant relatives were visiting from out of town. The man in the front seat next to my friend looked quite “grandpa-ish”, and he was wondering who I was. My friend tried to tell him I was John from the States, but that didn’t register. After trying to explain who I was, my friend finally asked me, “What’s your dad’s name?” I said, “Pat,” and he told the man, “Alright, this is John. He’s Pat’s son.” Eventually, grandpa got the picture…I think…maybe.

Anywho, that’s pretty nifty, eh? Being known by who your dad is. And that’s how it works around here. In a tightly knit community like this, where so much is passed down from parents to children, it’s no surprise people are known that way. You don’t easily escape your family, and with good reason. Most everyone in Qumlaq wakes up in the morning and works the same land their parents worked. There isn’t much moving around, if any. What many have is what’s been given to them, and when that’s the case, who your dad is matters.

And, of course, if you’re off doing your thing, whether you’re American or Azerbaijani, there’s probably something that reminds you of Mom and Dad, something that sticks with you. Yeah, my friend has called me “Pat’s son” since that day, and it works. It suits me fine.

Azerbaijani Boys Leadership Experience

2009-07-08T22:07:00.000-07:00

Hello everybody. I'd like to take a minute and share another project with you all with which I'm involved. It's called Azerbaijani Boys Leadership Experience (or A.B.L.E.) camp. It's an amazing project that has touched the lives of many young men all over the country. Volunteers serving in the rayons choose promising boys to participate in this six day camp, where they learn about leadership, democracy, and how to make a difference in their communities. Of course, the campers and counselors also have a lot of fun. And the camp's effectiveness shows in the boys that participate. Some say it's the greatest experience they've had in their entire lives.

Now I'm going to give y'all a couple links. The first one is to an entry in my friend Jeff's web log: http://northwestjeff.wordpress.com/2009/06/29/support-able-camp-2009/

Jeff is leading A.B.L.E. camp this year, and this entry will give more information about the project and how you can help.

And here's a link to our Peace Corps Partnership Program grant page: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=314-055. It will also give some more background information about A.B.L.E. camp, and if you'd like to donate, you may do so on the page.

Thank you for reading about this great project. Any donations would, of course, be much appreciated.

Azerbaijan Softball

2009-06-05T00:53:00.000-07:00

Hey, y'all. I'm going to take a minute here to tell y'all about an ongoing project in Azerbaijan. For years, volunteers have been organizing softball teams all over the country, giving them an opportunity to teach Azerbaijanis about the game and have some fun.

This year, they're working hard to gather the necessary funds to keep the project going. They would love a donation from anyone willing to give five dollars or more. You can visit this website for more information about the project and how to donate: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=314-052

I, for one, am a big fan of this project and hope it can achieve the same success it's experienced in past years. If you're interested, please take a look at the link, and any donations would bbe greatly appreciated. Thanks!

A Curious Little Kid

2009-06-01T02:33:00.000-07:00

29 May 2009

Today, I’m going to touch up on a couple topics I’ve mentioned before. I’m going to kind of combine the two, and we’ll see how it works out.

I’ve written to you all about my little host brother, Rustəm, a really good kid. I’ve talked about his creativity and letter writing, and I’ve also said a thing or two about the simplicity of village living.

Well, this village, where generations of Mahmudovs (my host family’s last name) have lived, is the perfect place for a kid like Rustəm. I thought to write about this after hearing him carelessly sing to himself in the hallway and playing badminton with him after lunch. He enjoys my company as a playmate, but he beautifully goes off into his own world as well, and what a setting for such behavior.

I’m pleased as punch to see him nearly every day, wandering about the trees and rivers, running around aimlessly, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He loves when I ask what he’s up to, so he can show me. An example is when he rigged something up with rocks that would hold a vine back so he could swing farther on it. Like I said, he’s very creative, and all he needs is what’s laid out for him around Qumlaq.

Sure, this is a small village, smaller than any community I’ve lived in, but its simplicity is satisfying. I wrote before about how people just walk around town, and when I ask them what they’re up to, they say, “Nothing.” I wouldn’t say “nothing” implies “We’re being worthless,” though. Rustəm may say “nothing” when I ask what he’s doing, but, in reality, he’s enjoying his childhood, emulating, according to my Azerbaijani teacher, Sevil Müəllimi, how his father, Firuz, acted as a child.

So there may not be a bunch of bells and whistles to entertain us around Qumlaq village, but I can say that people – in partucular, young people – are content with what they have. When I see folks cheerfully greeting their neightbors or Rustəm curiously wandering around, that comes to light, and it inspires me.

28 May

2009-06-01T02:19:00.000-07:00

27 May 2009

It’s interesting to look at the next couple days’ progression of events. As all teachers and English education Peace Corps volunteers in Azerbaijan know, this is the last week of school. After Friday, the summer and, basically, whatever we feel like doing ‘till September, will be ahead of us, which is a nice thought, unless you’re like Charlie and me and are afraid you might get a little bored. We’ll see how it goes. Anyway, I’m kinna getting off the topic (already).

With that said, Thursday is a holiday. Wow, what a convenient time for one. What’s it celebrating anyway, that we’d be off from work and school on the day before the last day of school?

Well, it’s celebrating the day Azerbaijan became an independent republic in 1918. Now, hold on. Isn’t there a lot of other stuff that happened between then and now? Yeah, plenty happened, but let’s take a look at Azerbaijani history around this time.

We’ll start over a hundred years before 1918. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Azerbaijan was ruled by several independent Persian khanates, or small regions under the control of a khan, or ruler. In fact, the diverse culture of Azerbaijan’s present rayons can be attributed to this era, as several of these khanates corresponded with present day rayons, such as: Shirvan, Ganja, Quba, and Shaki.

At the turn of the nineteenth century, Russia became a big threat in the region. By this time, the area of present day Azerbaijan had been conquered by Agha Muhammed Khan Qajar. This khanate declared war on Russia but was eventually defeated, and, in 1813, Russia controlled the territory. The Persian Qajars submitted to a final settlement, the Treaty of Turkmenchay, in 1828, which established the present day Azerbaijan-Iran border.

During this period of Russian rule (not to be confused with the Soviet era, which came along a century later), petroleum was discovered and exploited, and Azerbaijan experienced great prosperity (for the rich, at least) and growth. This was extremely important, not just in terms Azerbaijan’s economy, but also its society.

But why? The great disparity between rich and poor as a result of this exploitative economy brought on the emergence of an Azeri nationalist intelligencia that sparked quite a discourse in the region. It took a stand against poverty, ignorance, and extremism, and called for reforms in education and the rights of dispossessed classes, including women. These may have been unprecedented values, as present day Azerbaijan, throughout its history, had been ruled largely by oppressive outside forces.

These values clearly stuck as Russia lost its grasp on the area as a result of its involvement in World War I and the Russian Revolution of 1917. And on May 28th, 1918, Azerbaijan became an independent democratic republic. It was the first democratic republic in the Islamic world.

Of course, this was short lived, as Azerbaijan became a Soviet republic in 1920. Nonetheless, May 28th deserves great recognition. It doesn’t merely celebrate the brief Democratic Republic of Azerbaijan established in 1918, but the triumph of freethinking. While being passed from one ruling power to another, a movement emerged that recognized the solidarity of the Azerbaijani people. When I look at Azerbaijanis today, I see very nationalistic people, people that are proud of their heritage, and that may have a lot to do with this independent thinking that prevailed in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, giving great relevance to May 28th 1918, when Azerbaijan first became it’s own republic.

Go. Come. Sit. Stand. Eat. Drink.

2009-06-01T02:14:00.000-07:00

26 May 2009

I admit that’s kind of a weird title for an entry, but it’ll hopefully make more sense in a moment.

I’m fascinated by the Azerbaijani language. It’s different than any language I’ve ever heard, and with good reason. It’s part of a family of languages with which I wasn’t the least bit familiar until coming to Azerbaijan. It’s interesting what goes through your head before coming to another country whose language you don’t know. I can remember running around the neighborhood in Driftwood, Texas the weeks before coming to Azerbaijan, thinking, “Yep, I’m going there for two years. I’m going to learn the language, although I have no idea what it sounds like.” Then, I remember learning my first Azerbaijani sentence: “Mənim adım Condur (My name is John (Remember that “Con” is pronounced like “John” in Azerbaijani.).)”. Wait. Where’s the verb? What’s with the upside down ‘e’? What’s with this crazy language?

Well, like other volunteers, I got the hang of it. I can pronounce the words okay and tag the verbs onto the ends of the sentences. As you start to get it better and better, you notice certain trends in how people talk. The command form of the verb is used a lot. Let me give you some examples:

Example 1:

John: Hey, first host mom, I’m going running.

First Host Mom: Run!

Example 2:

First Host Mom: Eat!

Example 3:

First Host Mom: Drink!

Example 4:

Random Group of Dudes at the Çayxana: Come. Drink tea!

Example 5:

Second Host Mom: Come. Eat bread!

Example 6:

Second Host Dad: Come. Eat Bread. Afterwards, sit. Write.

Do you get the picture? This is how folks talk a lot of the time. It’s funny when you think about it, kind of a style of talking that’s, in a sense, encouragement through bossiness. I mean, it sounds bossy, but it’s really just their way of getting the message across in a short-and-sweet fashion. When you tell the passerby, “Come. Drink tea!” that doesn’t mean he has to sit down and have a glass with you. That’s just your way of inviting him. When my host mom would tell me, “Run!” it was to send me on my way. She could’ve cared less if I run. The same goes for lots of scenarios.

Languages are funny, and the more you learn about a foreign language, the more you understand the people’s difficulties with English. For example, an Azerbaijani may tell you, in English, “Give me book,” which sounds rude to us, but, well, that’s what they would say in their own language. Similar trends occur in other languages, as well. I tell ya. It’s interesting stuff.

The Burial

2009-05-23T04:18:00.000-07:00

14 May 2009

In my last entry, I talked about things that bind cultures together. Well, there’s another one, and it’s obvious: death. Not the friendliest word, huh? I guess it depends on how you look at it. Whether it comforts or shakes you, it happens. Nobody can avoid it, no matter where he’s from.

What may separate us is how we handle it. I mean, all people have they’re own way of coping with such a profound part of life. Growing up, I experienced it when loved ones passed: the visitation the night before, the service at the church, and the burial. It’s all powerful and wonderful.

A Russian teacher at the school’s mother recently died, and Firuz, my host dad, encouraged me to go to the burial. Death’s an interesting thing around here. You just happen to hear about it from one person or another. There’s no big announcement, which might be a good thing. A man actually committed suicide recently, and I just heard about it from some folks here and there.

Anyway, at about three today, I waited at the center of town for a car to take me and whoever else to the cemetery. We got there, and it was me and a random assortment of men, wandering around, checking out the gravestones with the deceased’s pictures etched into them (interesting, huh?). One little boy, whom I have for English club, was crying with his face pressed against the leg of an older man. I felt kind of weird just standing around with these dudes, wondering what was going to happen.

Before I knew it, a large group of men walked into the cemetery. I approached them and joined the procession. They were hoisting the body, and they eventually made it to the hole where the body would be placed. It was carried on a big wooden plank, with blankets wrapped around it. There was no coffin. It was eventually placed into the hole, and a wooden board was put on top to seal it in. After the body was placed, several men took turns shoveling dirt into the hole until it was filled.

Once that was finished and the prayers were said, we processed out. I asked Firuz why no women came, and he told me they would come a few days later. That’s the tradition. We then went to the deceased’s house and had tea and chatted a little. It was a nice way to unwind a bit after being at the gravesite.

It’s interesting experiencing death in another culture. Like I said, it happens everywhere, and I honor how it’s done here. I’m sure it’s hard for those involved, but they also accept it. In a world where health care can vary, you sometimes must step aside and let the person die. I never heard any news coming up to it. All I heard was that Mrs. Taxıra’s mother died. I might be wrong, but I can picture her loved ones, sadly, but earnestly, nodding their heads in the living room, saying, “Yep, it was her time,” and that makes sense. Like Dad says, we aren’t immortal.

Drinkin' Tea with Grandpa

2009-05-23T04:09:00.000-07:00

14 May 2009

There’re certain things that bind cultures together. What comes to mind? Laughter? Hospitality? Family? Love? You can see these everywhere you go, but there’s one that might not come up so quickly, and it’s essential. It’s the backbone of any society. It’s grandpas. You know who I’m talking about: the men sitting at the corner booth of the Huddle House, sipping coffee with the sun shining through; the fellows hunkered down on the front porch, watching kids go by and chatting about how it’s "just not the same" nowadays; the gentlemen standing on either side of the front door at your church, greeting you with a smile as you walk in. Yeah, you get the idea.

Guess what. Azerbaijan’s got ‘em, too, and I’m pleased. Now, I didn’t know what to think as I passed these gentlemen every day on my way to school. They frequently sit together at the bus stop, not necessarily because they’re going somewhere, but because it’s a good sitting spot. They’d always greet me kindly, but I’d keep on my way to class.

One day, I took a load off at one of the two çayxanas in the center of the village. The Qumlaq çayxanas are pretty rustic, on a side note. Ain’t nothing in ‘em but a few tables and a set of dominoes. That’s all you need, though, it seems. Anyway, I sat there, and a pot o’ tea was delivered to my table, where I sat and had a glass by myself. Seeing as it’s not so much fun to drink a whole pot by yourself, I decided to try my luck at socializing and brought my glass and pot to a table of grandpas. I was pleased as they welcomed me kindly to the group, and we happily sat there and shot the breeze together. We talked about our homelands, and they gave me expert advice, like how drinking plenty of tea will keep me from getting ill (Heck, maybe they’re right. I haven’t suffered much sickness since being here.). It was a nice exchange, and I’ve been back since, with good reason.

I like these guys. They have a good attitude. They aren’t macho or grouchy. In fact, they joke around like kids more than anything, always trying to "get each other’s goat". I don’t know if they like me so much, but they seem to appreciate how I’m a change in their routine. Heck, whatever it takes.

Here’s some advice, hang out with a grandpa or two. Learn from him. Joke with him. You’ll be glad you did. Sit down with the fellows at the Huddle House. If they sneer at ya, no harm done. If they welcome you, you made a few new friends, and like I said in the "Çayxana" entry, you’ll also appreciate the value of friendly company. Outstanding.

Bizim Pay

2009-05-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

17 April 2009

When you receive a little something in the mail, what’s your first reaction? It may be to tear it open at the post office, where you friends can see and congratulate you on your new treasure. It also may be to take it back to your room and open it in privacy. This is what I usually do when I receive a package, letter, or whatever. I wait until nighttime, when I’m done with my work and it’s quiet. There’s something very gratifying about waiting until that moment. I honestly hadn’t realized the value of a good letter until I came here.

I like the attitude folks have about this sort of thing around here, especially when it comes to packages. I recall a time in which a package had arrived from my aunt Nita. One teacher told me a package came, then another, then another (I guess news travels fast.). Then I went home, and my host dad also told me about the package. "Okay, okay, I got it," I thought.

The next day, a teacher wanted to know what was in the package. It’s not like there was anything too personal in it. It was just that…well…I wasn’t too comfortable giving out that kind of information. Sevil Müəllimi, my Azerbaijani language tutor, told me that’s just how things work around here. Someone receives something, and everyone wants to know about it. People want their share, or "pay" (pronounced like "pie") in Azerbaijani. "Bizim pay" means "our share", and that really is how things roll around here. One thing belongs to everyone. When I first met my host family here in Oğuz, I gave them some chewy pecan pralines, a signature Texas treat. Well, my host mother didn’t keep them to herself and the family. She gave them to her friends around the village. I shared some Snickers bars with my host family, and Aybəniz saved half of hers to give to Aygьn, her dear friend. A similar thing happened when I shared some Starburst Jellybeans with Hцkьmə and Rustəm. Hцkьmə took a couple for herself, then some for a friend. When I brought a bag of Robin’s Eggs malted milk balls to school, a teacher made sure everyone in the teacher’s room had one. Just one is enough for everyone’s share (While I have no problem eating them by the handful. That probably won’t change.).

Despite the ups and downs that can come with being in a new culture, there’s something utterly beautiful about this. I can yell at the students in class or hide from the unwanted attention, but there’s something to be said about a thirteen year old girl saving a few jellybeans given by the American for her good friend.

Çayxana

2009-04-18T00:22:00.000-07:00

15 April 2009

If you’ve ever been to Azerbaijan (and possibly several other countries) and learned a bit about its culture, chances are you know about these places. Personally, I’m a fan of them.

“Çayxana” means “tea house”, and they’re very prevalent around here. I’d say just about every little village has at least one, and they’re not hard to spot. If you’re walking down the street in a typical town, you’ll see an establishment, often with a patio area. Little tables will be set up out front and inside with small receptacles for holding sugar cubes. I must add that these establishments are traditionally for men only. Now, women may be able to go to them, but it might attract some interesting attention.

On any given day, you’ll see men seated at the outside and inside tables, taking sips from little glasses with a teapot between them. This is where many men convene just about every day. They relax, talk, and play chess or backgammon. From an American perspective, it’s an interesting thing to see men do. I joke with my friends sometimes about this. Picture the typical dudes’ get together in the States. Chances are they’d be hanging around the bar, tossing beers and talking trash. Well, the same macho men do that here, except they’re grasping little tea glasses, and a pot with flowers painted on it sits between them.

I love it! Despite my admiration for beer, who says it’s imperative for a dudes’ get together? I, for one, am a fan of caffeinated beverages, and a pot of tea on a sunny afternoon after a days’ work isn’t a bad way to do it, especially if you’re with your friends. My sitemate Charlie and I get together at least once a week at the çayxana of our choosing (There, of course, are several of ‘em in Oğuz.). We sit down with some tea and shoot the breeze for a while. Charlie mentioned that it’s become almost a motif of our experience.

There may be differing opinions regarding the çayxana, but, to me, there’s something very relevant about them. It’s good to know that people value slowing down and enjoying each other’s company. We often have to run around here and there, and we forget about the simple pleasures that bring us to life.

Takin' a Little Run

2009-04-12T06:48:00.000-07:00

10 April 2009

When you’re living and working in a different culture, you realize the importance of healthy habits that keep your mind, body, and spirit up to the task. These can range from reading, writing, prayer, playing a musical instrument, or whatever activity it may be. I write this web log partially because it feels good to write. It helps me put things in a better perspective.

Several times a week, I also like to hit the road and jog a few miles. It’s an activity I’ve always enjoyed. It’s interesting, though, doing it in broad daylight in a little village in Azerbaijan. It isn’t too common here, as many volunteers can testify. Running in public, with no particular destination in mind, can attract some odd stares and maybe even some harassment here and there. I can remember one time, when I was living in Ceyranbatan, in which my friend Charlie’s host brother saw me running by, and he looked at me curiously and asked, "Hara? (Where?)". Many volunteers avoid the varied reactions of the locals by either not running at all or heading out when people aren’t around. Some friends of mine in the rayon of İsmayıllı run at about six in the morning (It also grants them the liberty of wearing shorts.).

Thus far, in the ol’ village, that hasn’t been my style. At about five P.M., I head out the door and get my exercise in. This is partially because I tried the whole "running in the morning" thing. While it was nice to jog in the quiet with no one around, it wasn’t so nice to not be able to see where I was going. I fell hard on my left ankle the second or third time I did it, and I called it quits after that. Luckily, my ankle healed, and now I just run in the sunshine when others are out walking, drinking çay and playing backgammon, or playing volleyball (They’re really good at volleyball, by the way. I get put to shame when I step out there.). Sure, it attracts some attention, but not all of it’s bad. I get smiles and waves from the men drinking tea by the store. Women do the same while they’re walking down the road. Kids yell out, "Hi, John! How are you?!" which can be annoying, but at least it isn’t negative. I’ve even had some "followers" recently, but they generally taper off after about fifteen yards. It also appears, at least around here, that not all people find it necessarily "weird". I’ve gotten good reviews from various people. One man told me, "You know, John. I see you running a lot out there, and that’s a good thing. Folks around here, they don’t run, but you do. That’s good." Some women may also say, "John won’t get fat because he exercises" (It also, on a side note, has been good to maintain a healthy appetite. People appreciate that.).

Anyway, it’s just good to know that my strange, American ways aren’t necessarily strange to everyone. By being an English speaking foreigner in a small Azerbaijani village, I’m already pretty weird. What difference does taking a little run make?

Guesting

2009-04-04T07:18:00.000-07:00

4 April 2009

There’s a verb that exists in the Azerbaijani language that really amuses me. It’s "qonaq etmək", which, if translated literally, means "to do/make guest", with "qonaq" being the word for "guest" and "etmək" the word for "to do" or "to make". Okay that doesn’t make a whole lotta sense, but let’s try and translate this in a better way. According to my big, clunky Azerbaijani to English dictionary, "qonaq etmək" means "to entertain", "to treat", or "to feast". Ah, perhaps it’s ringing a better bell with you now.

Being or entertaining a guest is a big part of the culture here, or anywhere, really, but I’ll concentrate on how it’s done here. We Peace Corps volunteers typically just say that were "going guesting" every now and then, signifying that we’re heading to an Azerbaijani’s house to eat and spend time with their friends and family. Let me paint the picture for you:

You approach the host’s house, and they warmly welcome you, immediately telling you to take off your shoes and put on a pair of slippers. Then you walk into the house and sit right down. In my experience, there’s never been the American custom of showing the guest around the house. You come, and you sit, and the T.V.’s usually on, too. I guess it serves as an extra diversion for the people’s attention. As you get accustomed to the surroundings and Turkish pop songs are playing on the tube, çay is served, along with various little cakes and candies. You gotta love this custom that would get you slapped by your mama if you were back in the States. Folks here eat sweets before and after dinner. Priceless.

After having a spot, or several, of tea and chatting it up with other folks at the table, the sweets are taken away, and the meal comes out. An interesting aspect I’ve experienced that isn’t so common back home is that the women are often going back and forth from the kitchen while only the men sit and eat. I suppose the locals are used to it, but I keep wanting to say, "Come, sit down. We got things to talk about," while they’re pacing to and fro.

Nonetheless, the food is tasty. It typically consists of a few dishes. One of them is dolma. You’ll rarely guest at someone’s place and not have this. Dolma is either grape leaves or cabbage stuffed with meat and rice. It’s good stuff. Then, of course, there’ll be plenty of fresh bread to go with it. I’ve become a world-class bread eater since being in this country. Every time I go for a run nowadays, I can feel it there, weighing me down, but it’s so good that it’d be a crime if I refused it.

Also, they might serve up some cutlet, which is cooked ground beef patties, kind of like a chop steak or burger, without the bun of course. Sometimes it’s served with scrambled eggs, too (providing enough fat and protein for the next few days). They also might serve some turkey or chicken stew with potatoes, and, of course, no bout of guesting would be complete without dovğra. It’s a type of yogurt-based drink with cilantro and other little greens in it. It’s served hot or cold. When I first tried it, I was like, "You gotta be kidding." I can remember when Charlie first gave it a whirl, at his host family’s house in Ceyranbatan. I was sitting next to him, and when I asked, "How is it?" he responded, after swallowing and making a priceless face, "It’s interesting," which, for some reason, made me laugh consistently throughout our meal there, perhaps to the chagrin or simply confusion of the host. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Yeah, it seemed kinna weird at first, but it grew on me, and Charlie, too. It’s definitely an acquired taste.
Being the good hosts that they are, the Azerbaijanis will also insist that you eat more and more…and then more. My old football coach, Darly Hayes, would’ve been pleased. You gotta be careful, ‘cause, you know, you gotta save room for dessert, which is, well, what you had before dinner, with more çay. Oh, well, what the heck. Indulge. Life is short.

I’d say guesting is a pleasurable experience, and it’s certainly a testimony to the hospitality of folks that’re glad to have you. I’m also amazed to see the word "qonaq" have such a strong presence in the Azerbaijani language: "çağrılmış qonaq" (invited guest), "çağrilmamış qonaq" (uninvited guest / intruder (I guess it wouldn’t be good if you were this person.)), hörmətli qonaq (respected guest), şərəfli qonaq (guest of honor), qonaq getmək (to visit, to pay a visit), qonaq gəlmək (to come to see), qonaq qəbul etmək (to receive visitors / guests), qonaq qalmaq (to be on a visit), qonaq otağı (living room). If the handful of phrases with the word “qonaq” is any indication, I’d say it’s a big part of the culture, and that says a lot about these folks.

Heç nə

2009-04-04T07:16:00.000-07:00

1 April 2009

You gotta love living in a village, because I hear this phrase all the time. As I was walking back to my host family’s house on this beautiful spring day, I said hey to a few folks sitting on a bench. I asked them, "What are you up to," and they responded, "Heç nə (nothing)."

I get that response a lot, especially when I ask someone what he’s doing. Now, it may seem that doing "nothing" is probably not a good thing, but let’s think about it for a minute. I’ll give an example. In the town of Oğuz, where the rayon is centered, there are a few Internet cafes. These places are usually packed with little kids playing computer games. It’s really annoying when you’re trying to write an email to your mom and dad. Or let’s just ponder, for a second, the typical couch potato, wherever he may be, watching the tube all afternoon. I mean, he’s doing something, but that something may not be better than nothing, which is why I’m a fan of the village life. A lot of the time, when you’re walking around, you may ask someone, "Whatcha doin?" and he may say, "Nothing," when in fact, he’s simply walking around himself, or chatting with his buddy, or…I dunno…sitting on a rock. I’d say that’s about as edifying an activity as anything else. Can’t you think of some fond moments in which you were doing just that? How much more does a person need?

It reassures me that simplicity ain’t bad. We can’t help but want this or that, and the material world certainly isn’t bad, either, but if we can’t hang out and shoot the breeze with our buddies, what are we worth? What have we gained? Heck, Man, if something is gonna detract me from life’s simple pleasures, then I’ll take nothing over that. Would you agree? Just goes to show life isn’t that complicated.

School? On Sunday?!

2009-03-31T05:38:00.000-07:00

30 March 2009

Can’t say I wasn’t a bit perturbed about this piece of news, merely a day after my arrival back at site near the end of the Novruz holiday. I had been hanging out with friends in various places in Azerbaijan, enjoying the two weeks of “tətil” (vacation) that we had. I got back to my host family’s on Saturday, and I was looking forward to a relaxing day in which I could plan for the week and enjoy my newly arrived issue of The Christian Science Monitor. I was lying in bed at about seven o’clock Sunday morning, and I got up to ask Firuz if he could turn the volume down in the T.V. in the dining room.

He responded, “You’re not going to school?”

“What? School?”

“Yes, school. There’s class, class.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Well, there was vacation, and now we’re having class today.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

“Yes, it was a holiday. There’s class today.”

This little piece of news wasn’t taken with a whole lotta gratitude, if you can imagine such a response. I was mystified and, well, pissed off. To my own criticism, Charlie had informed me the night before, “They’re making me go to class tomorrow!” At that time, I thought, “Surely they must be mistaken.”

Well, that morning, with me still in my sleeping clothes with no lesson plans, the joke was on me. I headed out the door in a hurry and met Mrs. Adilə for class. It really wasn’t a bad day, as it was Friday’s schedule, which is just two eighth form classes. I tried to find out, though, from my counterpart, why we were having class on Sunday, and I got the same “It was a holiday” response.

What the heck is that supposed to mean?

Is this to say that, because we had a two week holiday, we have to make up for it by having an extra day of class, on freaking Sunday?!

Now, I’m no stranger to different cultures. I can deal with stuff. I’m okay with the A.T.M. crowd. I like tea. I can live with not crossing my legs when I sit down or not putting my hands in my pockets when I walk around, but school on Sunday is pushing the limit. Not only was it an unpleasant surprise, but it also got my days turned around. It made Sunday feel like Monday, and today, being the actual Monday, I approached some students to talk about English club today, and they responded, “You mean Tuesday?” “Aaaggghhh!” I thought, “What the heck day is it?!”

Oh, well, what can I do? This work can’t be on my own terms. Heck, if I was a teacher in the States, I’d have to attend those mysterious “teacher-in-service” days while the students ran free. This is just another reality of what I’m doing, and I’m cool with that.

The Peç

2009-03-28T07:25:00.000-07:00

6 March 2009

I don’t know if any of you have extensive experience with one of these things, but for the inexperienced among us, it can be an…um…somewhat frustrating process.

My source of heat in my room is a little contraption the Azerbaijanis call a "peç" (pronounced "pech"). It has a boxy, rectangular shape, with a large, metal tube leading up above the roof, where the smoke comes out. It’s cool to see the outside of the school building here in the village, where every room has a peç, and the many tubes protruding from the walls, with smoke billowing out. To get it going, you put logs into the "box", get ‘em lit, close the little door, and voila, your room is "isti" (warm) before you know it.

Well, hmmm…Anybody here have much experience with fires? This guy doesn’t. In fact, I’d have to say that fiddling with this peç has been my first experience with starting a fire on a regular basis. I knew I should’ve joined the Boy Scouts.

Now, I probably could ask my host mom or dad every night if they could light it for me, but what self-respecting Peace Corps Volunteer would do that? Nope, I was determined to get this right myself, every time.

Yes, good thinking, John. I mean, I had seen them light the peç for me before, and it didn’t seem like any big deal. Basically, you take a few logs, maybe some paper, pour a little "neft" (some kind of lighter fluid) on it, strike a match, and, like I said before, "voila", you got a warm room.

That’s at least what I thought, but why would it be as easy as that? That would be no fun, right? So I went through the same protocol I saw Firuz and Aybəniz do, and, of course, things look good at first when you got the "neft" on the logs. They flare up in a lovely glow, and I close the little peç door, brush off my hands, and say "Glad that’s done."

Wait a minute (And that’s all it really takes. About a minute.). As I walk away from the peç and go about my other business, I no longer hear the roar that the flames were making earlier but the pathetic pittle of one little struggling flame, destined to go out soon. I then say, "What the heck?" and stick my face down into the peç, to see nothing more than steamy logs and a little smoke, but no fire. "Crap," I think, and go for desperate action, that is, doing it over again.
So I go through the process of sticking a little paper between the same, now hot to the touch, logs, pour a little more "neft" on ‘em, and light it up. Ah, another heavenly glow, and I stick around to inspect it a little longer this time. It appears the logs are starting to redden and create the "coal" effect, which is another good sign. I decide not to leave the peç’s side this time around, but it’s not like that helps too much, because, as I sit there looking in, I can clearly see that the flame is, once again, going out, and the logs continue to just sit there, now red, hissing at me. "Dangit," I think. "What’s the deal here?" It’s time for more drastic action.

What exactly constitutes drastic action? The inclusion of fast-moving air. That’s what. If there’s one thing that helps get a fire going, it’s blowing air onto it. So I go through the same process, get the fire lit, let it sit for a minute, and as it starts to die down again, I’m ready with lungs full of CO2.

So I blow, then again, then again, harder and harder, and it works…somewhat. The flames get going again, but the logs, all laid down parallel in the "box", have all been, more or less, "hollowed out" from being lit that all they do is simply flare up for a moment and die down again. Being the genius I am, though, I decide it’s a good idea to blow even harder, because surely that’ll do the trick. Mind you, I’m beginning to get a little angry at this point. I mean, come on. All I was is a warm room at night. I blow so hard and with such frequency that I begin to feel quite faint and have to take a rest. I lay on my floor to see, once again, that the stupid thing is still not lit. "Aaaagggghhhh!," I loudly groan in a Charlie Brown-esque exhalation of frustration. Okay, now I’m mad, but still determined, and I continue to poke around at the logs and check out what’s going on with this confounded peç, quietly (or, at least, trying to be quiet) cursing it and my own incompetence. At this point, Aybəniz can hear me clanking around in my room, and she knows just what I’m doing. She comes in and asks, "You trying to light the peç?"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks (Go away.)"

"Alright, let’s take a look here."

She peers in and assesses the situation, placing a coal or two here and there. Telling me to move a log this way and that. Then she tells me to blow on it a little, and a flame goes up.

"Alright. We’re cool," she says.

"Really?" I think, "Is that all it took?"

Yes, that’s all it took. The logs slowly kindle up, and the peç, slowly but surely, is going strong. "Great googly moogly," I think.

Well, like so many things in life, lighting the peç is all about trial and error. I eventually learned the ins and outs of getting it going well, and, now, I can get it on the first or second try, just about every time.

I also must say there’s something just lovely about the thing. As the sun goes down, the day done, it’s finally time to relax, and lighting up the warm peç has almost come to symbolize that relaxation. Living in a small village, the nights are peaceful and quiet, and as I sit there in my room with the peç going strong, writing or reading a good book, all the anxieties and frustrations of the day seem to go out the window. It’s a good feeling.

Hi, I'm from Driftwood village

2009-02-27T22:43:00.000-08:00

27 February 2009

I believe all people should take great pleasure in describing where they’re from. After all, it’s an important part of their identity. Whether a person’s from California, Mississippi, Canada, or China, they hopefully take pride in talking about their homeland, or, at least, that’s the ideal situation. Understandably, this may not always be the case. Nonetheless, in my case, I got no problem telling people I’m from Driftwood, Texas (I mean, c’mon. We have a good barbecue restaurant, a vineyard, and a post office. What more do you need?).

This becomes a bit sticky, though, when you’re talking with folks in a village in Azerbaijan. In Azerbaijani, there’re basically two words to describe a community: şəhər (city) and kənd (village). So when someone asks me if I’m from a city or village, what exactly do I say? I’m from Driftwood, Texas, a community consisting primarily of nice housing developments. To say it was a “city” would be a lie, so I’ve stuck with the latter term. However, that seems kinna weird, too. People in Qumlaq village, Oğuz, Azerbaijan, where the roads are mostly unpaved and I run next to a sheep herd, may fall under the impression that I’m from Driftwood “village.” Hmmm…but how the heck else would I describe where I’m from? Balıcı şəhər (small city)? No, that doesn’t work. Böyük kənd (big village)? That doesn’t really make sense. My only solution has been to stick with “village” and try to describe Driftwood in decent detail so folks can have some kind of understanding.

But what a pleasure it is to do such things! Like I’ve said before, it ain’t always easy to describe where you’re from and what it’s like, but I feel like every time I make the effort to do so, I’m making a difference. I may not be providing everyone with every developmental need they may have, but I’m still giving them a better understanding of the United States of America (or, at least, trying to). So I’m from Driftwood village. Does it make the place sound more interesting? What do you think? Heck, if anyone has any bright ideas on how I can tackle this better, let me know.

Cup o' Tea

2009-02-27T22:41:00.000-08:00

Here’s something I probably should’ve written about a long time ago. It’s been a prevalent aspect of my life since living with my first host family in Ceyranbatan. You can barely sit down anywhere in Azerbaijan and not have a cup of çay sitting in front of you. It just wouldn’t look right.

Tea is a funny drink, if I may just speak of the substance itself for a moment. I remember my dad speaking fondly of it, how it doesn’t jolt you awake like coffee can and kinna eases you up, like the slow ascent of a roller coaster (without the sudden drop later on). But in its funniness, I can see the appeal, and I’ve thought about it a lot.

If anyone knows me well, they know that I love coffee. I’m a Gahan, and we Gahans are coffee drinkers. Dad mixes his special blend of Cajun chicory and whatever else on a regular basis (although it’s a bit weak, but I won’t hold it against him.). However, with my favorite drink comes a limit. Eventually, I’ve had enough (albeit it may take a lot sometimes). I also don’t normally drink it at night, as it might disrupt my sleep.

Çay’s different, though. You don’t reach a limit. If you want, you can sit there and put away a hundred cups, pausing only to go to the bathroom. You can drink it morning, noon, evening, and, heck, even a spot before hitting the sack. It don’t make no difference.

So no wonder the Azerbaijanis drink it all the time. It not only tastes good and has a bit of caffeine, but it’s the ‘round the clock drink. If you come as a guest in an Azerbaijani home, chances are you’ll be served tea before and after the meal. If you’re sitting down, having a chat, or anything of the sort, why not have some tea as well?

As I continue to analyze tea’s social status around here, I come to a relative estimation of how much tea the average family must buy, and by “relative estimation,” I simply mean that it must be “a lot” of tea. Now, just think about it: Every family buying a ton of tea means that tea companies rake it in, and the last time I checked, that industry has played a big role in world history. Ah, it makes sense to me now. Millions of people hooked on a beverage makes a difference in world economics (Go figure, John.). The case is similar for coffee companies in Latin America or that beer company in Milwaukee that makes more beer every day than you could imagine (I visited the brewery.).

Alright, has this become boring yet? I didn’t intend that, and, for the remaining time, let’s toss the economic hoo-hah aside. To put it simply, I’ve become a fan of tea. I’ve said this many times about it: It’s relaxing and stimulating at the same time, if any beverage could accomplish such a thing. It gives you this comfy feeling and sets your mind straight.

I especially enjoy it at the snack bar at the school. After teaching a few classes, no matter how they went, it’s nice to sit down and drink a pot in the back room, whether by yourself or with others. Instead of being John Müəllim (Teacher), the English teacher from the United States, I’m just John, and the teachers and I can have a conversation, like normal friends do. I’ve come to appreciate that in a place where I can feel like an outsider, despite the warmth and goodness of the local people. It’s not to say we gotta have tea to be friends, but, heck, it doesn’t hurt.

A Shaking of the Hand

2009-02-21T00:42:00.000-08:00

21 February 2009

There’s a certain mannerism of all people around here, adults and children alike, that I find very respectable. Now, it’s not that people don’t do this elsewhere, but here, everyone does it, without fail.

Most days start out the same, as I walk across the creek, up the muddy hill, and down the road to the Qumlaq village school. People are usually making their own ways to school, and others are waiting at the little bus stop to be taken to town. Other folks are standing next to their cars in the area that the school and a couple other markets surround, waiting to see if someone’ll be willing to pay a little extra for a ride. And there’s one other thing I always expect, and that’s that several young kids will see me walking towards the school building, mosey up to me, and shake my hand. It doesn’t matter if they’re six or eighteen years old. They all reach their hands out and say hello. Now, all the attention can sometimes annoy even the most sensible person, but, still, what civility. I don’t recall shaking someone’s hand so willingly as a young child. I do remember my dad telling me to shake a man’s hand, but I was never too excited to do so.

On the same note, let me tell you about a couple young men in particular in one of my eighth form classes. It’s a common trend here in Azerbaijan, and in the States to a certain extent, too, that boys can some times be, well, not-so-strong students. I can’t say that makes me happy, and the, um, “unhappiness” comes out after I’ve called on the same handful of girls throughout the class period, and these boys haven’t said a word. I suppose it doesn’t matter where you are. These kinds of students are everywhere. Heck, at some points in time, I could’ve been one of those boys. Nonetheless, when I see them sitting together, their interest in the topic questionable, I call on one of them. Sometimes they surprise me with a good answer. Sometimes they just stand there, and snickering ensues around the room, causing me to become more irritated, at times to the point where I begin to rant about why the girls are always answering the questions and the boys ain’t doing nothing.

Well, eventually class ends, and I begin packing up my things. As I begin to make my way out of the classroom, these two boys always approach m and shake my hand. I might’ve embarrassed the crap out of them, but they still look me in the eye and lend me a sincere goodbye, and I gotta respect that.

What a display of character it is when you know you sometimes disappoint, and yet you still have the gall to shake a man’s hand. While growing up, I always knew that a great way to make amends was to do just that, as if to say, “Despite anything else, I offer myself to you as I am, and I hope you respect me as I respect you.” A real man returns the favor, no matter what.

I’m not so naïve as to think that every student in this Azerbaijani community is going to be overjoyed to learn English. For many students, I’m sure, it’s low on their list of priorities. Teachers everywhere know what I’m talking about. However, no reasonable person can simply shrug off a young man’s sincerity at the end of the day, and if he did, who would truly deserve the reprimand?

Tom and Jerry

2009-02-21T00:39:00.000-08:00

Since I’ve been on the subject of T.V. so much lately, I suppose I’ll go ahead and talk about it a little more. This one, I must say, is the most fulfilling of them all.

Sitting around the white plastic table in my host family’s living room, loaves of bread laying on its bare surface, turkey stew or dolma sitting there, waiting to be eaten, we’re, of course, glancing, at least from time to time, at the T.V. It’s pretty customary around here to have the tube going, and I’m kinna neutral about it. On one end, it diverts our attention away from each other, but, on another end, it, well, diverts our attention away from each other. Simply put, I must say it’s nice, sometimes, to be able to just watch the T.V. without feeling like I have to make conversation (Sometimes, you can only think of so many things to talk about.), or maybe I’m just being lame. Whatever the case, I’m getting a little off the topic.

Every now and then, Rustəm’ll give me a nudge and excitedly tell me, “John, Tom and Jerry! Tom and Jerry!” You know this show, right? Well, I certainly hadn’t forgotten about it, but let’s get serious here. That show rarely comes on T.V. anymore in the States, so it was a lovely reminder of the simple fun those shows provide. And, yes, much like the other program featuring American jackasses jumping off their roofs, language isn’t a problem. Both Rustəm and I derive the same enjoyment from our favorite cartoon.

Perhaps you’ve picked up on it already. Yes, I get as excited as Rustəm does when Tom and Jerry comes on. I can’t help it. Number one, I love cartoons, and, number two, it’s so dang refreshing to watch such a show while I’m living far from home. I felt the same way in Brazil when I discovered The Pink Panther cartoon came on every now and then. It’s not only entertaining, but it’s also a reminder of such pure fun, which seems forgotten much of the time. Nowadays, things seem to be made more complicated on purpose. Instead of laughing heartily at Roadrunner and Coyote, we’re peering into people’s “lives” on reality T.V. shows (which they also have here…not a fan). Instead of enjoying another episode of Looney Tunes, we’re playing computer games about stealing cars (I only say that because the folks at the Internet café play “Grand Theft Auto”...all the time.) For me, it took living in Azerbaijan to remind me that there’s nothing wrong with kicking back and having a laugh at what we’ll hopefully never forget.

Watching Videos of People Doing Dumb Stuff on T.V.

2009-02-14T01:23:00.000-08:00

11 February 2009

As I sit here at my desk, tired and weary after a pretty full day, I just gotta elaborate on something I’ve been meaning to talk about for some time. Now, as plenty can attest, Azerbaijani folk, like many of the twenty-first century, enjoy their T.V. It’s on morning, noon, and night. There’s a variety of shows people like to watch, but one in particular I wanna mention.

I can remember watching Spike T.V. back in the States. Familiar with that channel? Any clue what one of their most prevalent shows is? Yeah, you guessed it: Real T.V., the show made up exclusively of…well…stuff caught on tape. Pretty cool, huh? Well, let me assure you this phenomenon doesn’t stop at the border.

Nope, and it’s not without good reason. What’s so great about these kinds of shows? Well, who gives a darn what language they’re in? It’s sweet stuff caught on tape! That said, it’s one of the most popular shows on T.V. around here, and my host family and I indulge in it frequently. At first I thought it was pretty dumb. I mean, dude gets hit in the testicles by a teeter-totter. That’s not exactly high brow humor, but, yavaş yavaş (slowly but surely), as the Azerbaijanis say, I started coming around to the baseness of the jokes, and, I mean, c’mon, I ain’t that sophisticated. What’s the harm in laughing at a guy skateboarding off his roof or another dude riding a bike into a lake? It’s all in good fun.

Nonetheless, it occurred to me: Where do you think most of these videos come from? Yeah, you guessed it: The United States. I began to think, “Oh, crap. This is the impression being given to these sweet people about the U.S. of A?” And I can’t imagine what must be going through their heads. I didn’t know what to think when we’d see some guy from…wherever…riding a horse into a barn just to hear my host mother say, “Ay, Allah. Ay, Allah.” Let’s also not forget about the dude that can light his fart for an extended period of time (although he might be European. I’m not sure.).

I soon found myself embarrassed when Rustəm, my host brother, would ask me, “Is this is in America?” I’d try not to answer.

Luckily, I think the folks take it for its entertainment value, as they should. American or not, people do dumb stuff, and to be perfectly frank, if my host family’s opinion of the U.S. was based on a dude trying to do a back flip on a pogo stick, I don’t know how welcoming they’d be.

Letters from the Host Brother

2009-02-14T00:51:00.000-08:00

8 February 2009

It’s 10:49 at night, about the time this guy hits the ol’ sack, but I just gotta elaborate, for a brief moment, about my host brother, Rustəm.

He’s a creative young lad, that Rustəm, and it comes out when we’re at the dinner table. The T.V.’s usually on, and Firuz and Aybəniz might be having their own little conversation while Hökümə might be doing a little homework and I…well…sit there I guess. Rustəm often prefers to spend his time drawing or writing random things he reads in books (An English textbook is a good example). He loves to see a picture and copy it as best he can. Then he’ll show it to me and say, “This is that,” while pointing to the picture from which he got his drawing. Of course, I’m always very impressed with his artistic ability. To be honest with you, it’s cool to see the little guy going at a drawing. It’s good for him, and fun to watch, too.

Today, I received two very special gifts from my host brother. This morning, he handed me a letter he wrote to me on the inside of a porcelain cup and saucer box. Although I had to use a dictionary to get all the words in the letter, I was touched, as you can imagine. I would share his words of wisdom, but, of course, that would be breaking brother-host brother confidentiality. And this evening, as I finished up the plan for my first English clubs, he knocked on my door and handed me another letter, as sweet as the last one.

Kids are amazing. Who gives a darn if you’re the foreigner and he’s the local and you can’t speak his language very well? None of that makes much of a difference. There’s so much you can learn about a person just by being there, by standing aside and seeing him do his thing. Dad would talk about how he’d swing by Sewanee Elementary just to watch by older brother play on the playground when he was little. I bet Dad learned a lot about his oldest son by simply looking on at eight year-old Clay, at a time in which he, like all kids, did his own thing, and I see the same in young Rustəm. The fact that he wrote me a couple letters doesn’t just illustrate how he feels about the American living in his house. It also says a lot about him, and that’s a heck of a good thing to learn.

Toy...T.V.?

2009-02-07T05:42:00.000-08:00

7 February 2009

Okay, so I’ve already told y’all about the "toy" (Or should I say "toys"?), but there’s another phenomenon related to this topic that I’d like to touch up on. As the title says, it has to do with the big electric picture box sitting in many Azerbaijani living rooms.

Do you ever watch old videos from weddings, or any old family event, for that matter? Birthdays? Holidays? First communions? Barbecues (The opening theme song from The Wonder Years comes to mind.)? You probably have, and it’s not without good reason. Old videos are fun, entertaining ways to reminisce.

Azerbaijani folk have the same idea, and this especially rings true with toys. Say company comes over for dinner. You put out the tea and candy and sit down to a word or two, but you gotta do something while the aş is being prepared. What do you do? "Oh, I know! Let’s put a toy video on the tube. Everyone loves those!" And so it goes, the video plays, and people watch, enamored by which family members showed up and what’s being served as the meal. Now, I’m not saying every toy is the same, but they tend to carry a general pattern I described in my earlier entries. People put on their Sunday best, sit at tables, eat plenty of food, dance with their arms in the air (but make sure not to smile when the camera’s on them), and a fair amount of the men put away plenty of vodka.

Although each toy may be unique to Azerbaijanis, to folks from the United States, where any given wedding can be different, thing get monotonous…fast. A friend of mine serving in a village in the rayon of Şəki was not allowed to stay at home alone with his host family’s teenage daughter, so what did they do? Well, every afternoon, he’d go guesting with his host family to another person’s house and watch…You guessed it…toy videos. This went on for six months. I also heard about another volunteer who watched a toy video in which the drive from Baku to Lənkəran, in the southeast corner of the country, literally hours away, was entirely filmed.
Let’s also not forget another phenomenon frequently discussed by me and Charlie, which also goes along with the title of this entry: Toy T.V….literally. Oh yeah, you can flip on the tube and watch Turkish toys at your heart’s content. It doesn’t matter if you know the people or not, because, well, they’re toys, and they’re totally awesome.

I won’t lie. From the perspective of us Americans, this concept doesn’t make a whole heck of a lotta sense. I asked my host father Firuz about it, and he simply said, more or less, that it simply has to do with comparing and contrasting what is, in reality, a very special event for friends and family.

Now, does that make sense to you all? Think about it. The "toy", as the Azerbaijanis call it, is the big event, the big hoopla in which two families are joined or a boy becomes a man. It’s something they really look forward to, and while they may seem monotonous to us, that might not be so for the Azerbaijanis, and I have to respect that. In fact, the significance they put on family and friends and the events that bring them together is inspiring.

What is that on the freaking roof?

2009-02-07T05:37:00.000-08:00

5 February 2009

I figured I’d take a moment to describe an, if anything, interesting situation going on above my head.

I couldn’t help but notice one night, while I was lying in bed, a strange scratching/crawling noise coming from just above my room. Being the new guy in town in his first month, I was somewhat baffled and taken aback by such a noise, but it was clear the sound was being made by an animal of some sort. Now, if it had simply been a squirrel (Wait. Are there squirrels here? Heck, I don’t know.) racing across the roof real quick, I wouldn’t’ve bothered, but this critter, whatever it was, was aggressively making love to my roof, scratching away at it like it had something it really wanted. After about a minute and a half of this annoying raucous, I gathered all the wit I could muster, put together the pieces of the plan only a highly sophisticated Peace Corps volunteer could make, and came to a triumphant conclusion: I’ll hit the ceiling with something.

So, dim-eyed and cranky, I looked all over my room for something, anything to startle the little varmint off my roof. I looked at the peç, and, low and behold, the long pincher thing used to pick up logs caught my eye. I grabbed it, pointed it upwards, and knocked the roof silly with it. As you could expect, the rodent, frightened, changed positions to another part of the roof, where I only followed it to slam it out of its wits again…and again and again, until it was out of range of my precious ears. I then washed the black nastiness off my hands and rested in peace.
And the battle has continued.

Nope, wish I could say it was a one-time thing, but contrary to what could’ve ended with a funny little anecdote has developed into a tale of war. In fact, as I type at this very moment, the critter is continuing to scurry across my roof, doing, well, whatever it’s doing (Aybəniz, my host mother, says it has to do with gathering and eating nuts or something. Why it would do that at 11:22 at night is beyond me.), regardless of what I’d prefer.
Oh, well. I’ll do what I can, and, heck, it gives me a reason to be as tired as possible when I hit the sack at night, in hopes that no creature, whatever it is and whatever it’s doing, will disturb my slumber.

Now, I have two questions for all of you:
1.What do you think it is?
2. What should I do?

Friends

2009-01-25T02:44:00.000-08:00

22 January 2009

Today, I wanna talk to y’all about something that’s as important in Azerbaijan as it is anywhere. What do you think about what I mention the word “friend”? It’s not such a complicated question, really. Hopefully, what comes to mind is that person whose company you love. The one you can sit down and have a cup o’ joe with every day, talkin’ about whatever. When I was at Sewanee, Shep, Harcout, and I would hang around the frat table at McClurg dining hall and just shoot the breeze after dinner, and it’s one of the fondest memories I have of college.

About the second day I was living in Qumlaq village, I wanted to join Aybəniz to the “klub”, the community center where she works. It’s a nice little place where folks gather every so often (although I haven’t been to any events there yet). It has a big room with a piano (a bit out of tune), another room with firewood, and another small room with a couple chairs and a peç (pronounced “pech”), or stove.

She works alongside a woman named Aygün (Interesting fact: “Ay” means moon, and “gün” means “day”. “Bəniz” also means “face”. See if you can put those together.), a lovely twenty-nine year-old lady. There’s not a whole lot involved in their work. They sit in the small room with the peç and have a cup of çay or two. That’s about it. To be honest, there isn’t much else for them to do, but it’s what they get paid for. There’s also a good chance they’re up to a lot more when something’s going on there, but, nevertheless, I’m digressing.

So we chilled out there for a little while and eventually went home. Aygün went her separate way, and I asked Aybəniz if Aygün was married. She wasn’t. Although it’s wrong to stereotype, I must say that in the rayons of Azerbaijan, you don’t find a whole lotta single, working twenty-nine year-old women. After asking why she wasn’t, Aybəniz went on about how there aren’t any good men in this town. “Aygün’s an attractive, intelligent lady, and she needs a good man,” she said. I nodded in agreement and was impressed by such boldness. Clearly Aygün was a good friend of hers, and it was also clear that Aybəniz cared about her.

Alright, now let’s flash forward a few weeks. I was in my room, wood stove cracklin’, doing some exercises and trying to stay fit after spraining my ankle (I was running in the dark, nobody’s fault but mine.). Aybəniz knocked at the door and walked in, quietly asking me if the peç was going okay. She kinna paced around, and I could tell something was up. Then she spilled the beans: “Aygün kişiyə getir” (Literally “Aygün’s going to a man” or, simply, “Aygün’s gonna get married”.) I stood there and acknowledged the news, and then placed a hand on Aybəniz as she began to cry there next to me. Aybəniz went on to say that Aygün was her good, good friend, and her leaving to get married was a hard fact to face. I mean, think about it. Put yourself in that position. You’ve been working with someone for years, sitting in the same room together, talking about whatever. In other words, a friend real close to your heart is leaving your side. We know the feeling. But Aybəniz also expressed: “Aygün xoşbext olsun” (May Aygün be happy). That’s also what a friend says.

So what came of it all? Well, a week or so later, Aygün was over at my host family’s house, and I asked her, “Toy nə vaxt olacaq (When’s the toy? (You remember toy, right? Don’t even get me started.))? And she responded, “Toy olmayacaq (Ain’t gonna be no toy.).”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I thought.

Turns out a little research was done on the “dude” she was gonna marry. Although I didn’t entirely understand the situation (I mean, c’mon. I’m an “intermediate-mid” Azerbaijani speaker. Real middle of the road here.), it seems he wasn’t too great after all. With Aybəniz also sitting there by the peç in the living/dining/Turkish-music-videos-watching room, I asked her, “That’s not too common ‘round here, is it?” and she said, “Nope.” Then I said, “But you’re different.” And, to that, I got two of the biggest grins I’ve ever seen from those two lovely, amazing women I have the privilege to know, and who’re privileged to have each other.

İyirmi yanvar

2009-01-25T02:41:00.000-08:00

20 January 2009

Okay, so on Monday the nineteenth, I walked into the teachers’ room of the Qumlaq village school to find a big, heart-shaped bouquet of flowers. In an attempt to be the comedian, I sauntered in and said, “Ooohhh, who sent me flowers!?” My fellow teachers, who typically laugh at my jokes, no matter how bad they are, gave a pretty tame response, if one at all. It struck me as kind of weird, but after I thought for a second, the circumstances made sense, and I felt like an idiot.

Let me give you a quick Azerbaijani history lesson. Although, in 1917, Azerbaijan was proclaimed the first democratic republic in the Islamic world, it soon after, on May 28, 1920, became a Soviet Socialist Republic. In the 1930’s, the Azerbaijan S.S.R. was affected by Stalin’s purges, as thousands were killed (mainly members of the intelligentsia (who, I might add, were influenced by European ideas, rallied against poverty, ignorance, and extremism, and supported education and the emancipation of women) and other suspected opposition sympathizers).

In the 1940’s, the Azerbaijan S.S.R. was integral in the Soviet Union’s struggles against Nazi Germany, as it supplied a lot of gas and oil. Several Azerbaijani’s fought vigorously in this war, and about 400,000 died.

Policies of De-Stalinization, rapprochement, and Russification followed in the 1950’s, which led to urbanization, industrialization, and anti-religious sentiment. Although education and welfare conditions improved, the Azerbaijan S.S.R.’s economic output and productivity drastically decreased in the 1960’s, mainly because its oil industry lost much of its importance. Heydər Əliyev was then appointed as the first secretary of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan in 1969, in an effort to fix the Soviets’ structural crisis in the area, and economic conditions temporarily improved. However, he was forced to step down in 1987, when Perestroika began.

More nationalist sentiment began to emerge during this time, which was characterized by great civil unrest in the Azerbaijan S.S.R. This unrest reached the boiling point on the twentieth of January, 1990, when Soviet troops killed 132 nationalist demonstrators. Azerbaijan declared its independence in 1991, but not after a long period of ups and downs.

Ah, now do you see why I was a bit embarrassed? Schools and offices are closed on this day (which, in Azerbaijani, is “iyirmi (20) yanvar (January)”.), but it isn’t exactly a holiday. It’s a day of mourning, in which those 132 people are remembered, but, from my perspective, I look at the entire twentieth century: the government changing hands three times, thousands dying in Stalin’s purges, about 400,000 dead after the war with Nazi Germany, great civil and ethnic unrest, and 132 nationalists killed by Soviet troops. After something like that, I’d say it’s good a nation chooses to stick together, remembering its history and moving forward, and as the United States of America inaugurates a new president, I’d say it’s important that we take a hard look at past years and move forward too.

Amerikada var?

2009-01-25T02:37:00.000-08:00

19 January 2009

Let me tell you a little somethin’ about livin’ abroad. This is the most challenging part of it, while, at the same time, it’s the most rewarding. Let me explain.

While I was living with my first host family in Ceyranbatan, I got this question a lot. “Amerikada var?” means “Do you have this in the United States?” On any given day, I could get it about everything: cows, bananas, cars, roads, hospitals, mosques, whatever. And, well, the answer is pretty easy when it comes to questions like that: Yes, we do have those in the United States, or no, we don’t have those there.

Whether or not something exists in the United States is one matter. However (And, like always, many Peace Corps volunteers can attest.), what about those “What’s life like in the United States” type questions. Yeah, those are different.

When you’re plopped down in the middle of a different life, you make great adjustments without even realizing it. The fact that I need to take off my shoes every time I enter a home and put on a pair of slippers never struck me as such a huge change because I didn’t really have time to think about it. You integrate one step at a time, being careful not to embarrass yourself. However, on any given night, when I’m laying in bed with nothing but my thoughts, I can sit back, reflect, and think, “Holy crap, if I was back home, who would give a darn if I wore slippers or not? We don’t put our bread and turkey bones on the bare table in Texas. I can sit back and cross one leg over the other in the U.S., and no one would give it a second thought.” Before I know it, my mind is blown.

So what am I getting at here? Well, what if you’re in the middle of a dialogue with someone from a different culture? This person has not been to the United States, and her only real impression of the U.S. is you. It’s easy for her to go on about her own culture because, well, you’re in it. You’re living it every day, but once you begin describing the intricacies of where you come from, things can get a little sticky: “What do you mean your mother drives to work every day?” “You can buy what at the grocery store?” “Coffee shops?” “How many rooms do you have in your house?”

These are just a few examples, and explaining yourself ain’t always easy. Most of all, you don’t want to leave a false impression, but how can you do that when you’re describing to a person that lives in a village with muddy roads that all the roads in your “village” are asphalt? How do you tell people that teenagers in your community go to a high school in an adjacent town with two stories, a huge gymnasium, a library, and a football stadium? I had a gentleman tell me the other day that my village was good and his wasn’t. “Well, no” I thought, “That isn’t it at all. It’s just different.” And that’s the truth.

And here’s the end-all question that has put many a volunteer in an awkward situation: “How much money does your brother make?” My school director asked me that (more than once), because he knows that my brother, Clay, is a teacher. “I don’t know” is my answer, and I stick to it. To be honest, I don’t know how much he makes, and don’t care to, and we Americans also tend to believe that money is a taboo subject to bring up, especially with folks we don’t know real well. But let’s put ourselves in their shoes. Imagine a situation in…whatever country…in which one person makes two grand a month, but his neighbor makes three grand a month. That’s a heck of a difference. It would give one good reason to ask around, seeing where the good jobs are. I know that making a comparison in salary between my director, who works in a school with wood stoves in each classroom and sheep wondering around in front, and my brother, who works at a private school in Chattanooga, would be futile, but I don’t blame the man for asking. I just have to play it cool, being careful not to leave them with the wrong idea. A lady who speaks good English told me, “Our lives can be difficult here, but in America, you make much money.” Okay, I admit that contrasts may exist in salaries, but that’s not to say that two working class parents in Wimberley, Texas, making minimum wage and trying to raise their three kids, live an “easy” life.

So how do you answer these cross-cultural inquiries? Well, you tell ‘em like it is, no matter how hard that may be. It doesn’t help to beat around the bush, and, to be perfectly honest, that’s why Peace Corps sends U.S. citizens all over the world: to give people an understanding of America. For me, sitting down with local folk and verbally painting a picture of where I come from is beautiful. It gives me great pleasure to describe my hometown to Firuz and Aybəniz, and see their heads slowly nod up and down. Whether folks leave your side saying, “Wow, America sounds cool” or “Good gracious, what a weird place he comes from,” you did what you should do, and you should keep doing it as best you can.

Brother and Sister

2009-01-25T02:35:00.000-08:00

17 January 2009

How many of you can relate to this concept? I know I can. My sister Catherine Grace is four years older than I am, and we have many memories growing up together.

Well, these themes don’t stop at the border. In fact (And every Peace Corps Azerbaijan crony can agree.), family is a prime topic of conversation around here. They wanna know about your parents and grandparents, how many brothers and sisters you have, what they do, whether they’re married and have children or not, and so on and so forth. They’re very interested in that, and they’re especially pleased to see pictures. Just today, I brought a picture of my parents and me to a friend’s house, and the picture was passed around to everybody. Everyone made sure to give his or her input about who I looked like (Some said Mom, and some said Dad, which is interesting.).

But in this entry, I’m not specifically talking about my family. What I wanna get at is my host family, in particular, Hökümə, my host sister, and Rustam, my host brother. The sister is a teenager, and the brother is about nine. Now, think about that for a second. What’s the dynamic that comes to mind when you think about the relationship between a teenage sister and a kid brother?

Well, I had my own preconceptions, too, seeing as I am a kid brother and, at one time, was nine when my sister was thirteen. However, those preconceptions were blown away when I saw how these two got along. They do everything together. They’re like best friends. So far, one of my most vivid memories occurred on a snowy day. We were having lunch after school, and right when the two were done eating, they raced outside and immediately started playing in the snow together. It was beautiful, really, and I’m personally amazed at how two young people spend their free time here. I mean, it’s a little village that’s pretty dark at night, not a street light to be found, so what do they do on the weekends? Well, they stay at home. A Friday night is simply a night to stick around the house and relax, and Saturday and Sunday are the same way. There’s no movie theater to go to, no sleepovers like we have in the States. Home is where it all happens, and, with this being the case, I’d say it’s a pretty darn good thing these two get along so well. Nonetheless, it’s cool to see.

Changing Places

2009-01-25T02:33:00.000-08:00

17 January 2009

Well, it appears I’ve been quite lacking in my web logging lately. I mean, really lacking. What happened? I can’t even give a straight answer, but what I can give is a sincere apology to all my dedicated readers (Yes, all four of you). Sorry ‘bout that.

This entry concerns a pretty prevalent theme in my life, and, to be honest, a common theme among many Americans. It’s about moving from one place to another. I know many of you have been there and done that. I, for one, began moving from when I was two, going from Tennessee, where I was born, to Texas, with my family. Since then, we haven’t spent more than five years anywhere. Although moving isn’t always fun (You gotta pack everything up, say your goodbyes, then unload everything again.), I now feel (And I think other members of my family can agree.) that everywhere we’ve lived brings back such specific, vivid memories that we all share.

And who recognizes the aspects of going to a new place better than a Peace Corps volunteer? That’s not to say that we’re experts, but we’re all in the same boat in that we’ve all packed our bags and moved far away from home. And the moving doesn’t stop in just one place, either. Nope, sure doesn’t. You see, the last, longer entry I wrote was from Ceyranbatan, but I don’t live there anymore.

Ceyranbatan was where I was living for training, and now that training’s over (It’s actually been over for a bout five weeks.), I’ve packed up and moved to Qumlaq village, Oğuz. I wrote about this place before, and it’s great to finally be living here. Training can be a pretty taxing time. You got a lot on your plate, and it’s like a big breath of fresh, mountain air (literally) to be settled and working at my site of service.

But it’s not like I left Ceyranbatan and then put it out of mind. Luckily, my good neighbor from Ceyranbatan, Charlie Djordjevic, lives in the same rayon as I. Our memories of training will always be with us, like the time Charlie was locked out of his house by a certain unnamed grandmother and came to my host family’s place for kabobs, or when my “host uncle” randomly took me and Charlie for a drive to a wedding palace in Sumgait, and a huge feast magically showed up while we were sitting in some gentleman’s (who I guess lived at the wedding palace?) apartment area, or when we showed the kids at the local school how to play touch football. We left Ceyranbatan, optimistic about where we were going, with great memories, and, hey, that’s how it outta be. If I’ve learned anything in Peace Corps (and in my life in general), it’s that packing up and heading to a new place shouldn’t be something you dread, even though it can be a pain. It wasn’t fun loading all my stuff into a marshrutka (Remember what those are?), talking the driver into not charging us extra, and hauling it to Oğuz, but now I’m here, and it’s great. And even if you’re not too fond of where you’re going, it makes where you came from mean that much more. As much as my family liked living in Maryland, it still meant a lot to us to move back to Texas, where we’d lived most of my life. Things like this are important to remember when you’ve made a two-year commitment to live in a foreign place. There are good days and not as good days, but we can all count on the fact that we will go back eventually. Maybe home will mean more to us when it’s all over. And let’s be honest; that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T00:19:00.000-08:00

It seems I haven't posted in a while. We'll fix that, believe you me, but in the meantime, I'm going to leave y'all with a short and hopefully sweet "Season's Greetings". Or should I even say "Season's Greetings"? Is that legit? My buddy Charlie tells me it's a generic phrase made up my Hallmark (no offense to Hallmark. I like their cards) or the like. Perhaps I should just stick with "Merry Christmas". I mean, Charlie did go to Kenyon, so he must be good with words.

Okay, here goes: Merry Christmas! I hope it's a blessed one!

Leaving Your Hat On A Marshrutka

2008-12-07T03:52:00.000-08:00

What. This has never happened to you?

Okay, while it’s fresh on my mind, let me recount what “went down” after I stepped off the marshrutka in Ceyranbatan, although the title might’ve given it away. Whatever.

Hold on. Perhaps I should give you the “low down” on what a “marshrutka” is. There’s a chance you’ve never heard of such a thing.

Marshrutkas are some of the greatest things ever.

Wait. That wasn’t good enough? Okay, I’ll describe them in more detail.

“Marshrutka” means “minibus”. Perhaps you’re getting a decent mental image now, but let me tell you. It’s more than just that. They’re inexpensive, speedy, van-like vehicles that transport folks from one place to another. It might be to the next town, within the town, or across rayons of Azerbaijan. They’re about as convenient as you can get, and who can argue with a four-hour ride for seven fifty (That’s in dollars.)? In the states, a ride that long could cost thirty on the Greyhound, or maybe more. Needless to say, I’m a fan.

So what did happen as I dismounted the marshrut (That’s the shortened, casual form of the word.) in Ceyranbatan (Just pretend the title of the entry is something else.)? Well, I left my sweet, blue, Rocky style (as Shep would describe) cap in the freakin’ vehicle, and I, of course, realized it as it was driving away.

So…what did I do? I ran. Then I ran some more.

I thought the marshrut made its final stop just up the road. It didn’t. It just kept rolling along, and I just kept a runnin’ down the road in the dark. The marshrut would stop for a second. I would catch up a little. Then it would keep going again. I’m sure the local folk were wondering what this white dude was doing running down the road in his corduroy jacket and scarf. I mean, Hell, they’re curious enough when you’re running in athletic gear. I almost tripped and fell at one point, too. It was one of those “almost trips” when your foot kicks back suddenly due to a groove or something on the path. Then your friend says something like, “Whoa! Better watch your step there!” or something smart-alecky like that, which just pisses you off more.

Eventually, I realized, with the size of the town being what it is, the marshrut would just loop around, so I ran back the other way, and, lo and behold, it showed up. I got on the marshrut, again, and fetched the hat. No problemo.

Okay, why the heck am I writing this? I mean, am I the only person who’s ever left his hat somewhere? Surely not. Maybe this is just a piece of advice to the kinds of people that leave stuff (You know who you are.). If your hat happens to have been left on a marshrutka, run after it. Don’t just stand there. Hold on. Scratch that. Okay…if your hat happens to have been left on a marshrutka, stand there. Don’t run after it. Just wait ‘till it comes back.

Military Service

2008-12-05T03:50:00.000-08:00

Here’s something you hear about all the time. Back in the U.S., many, many people join the ranks and serve the country, sacrificing a lot but gaining a lot as well. What would it be like, however, if everyone had to serve?

Well, in Azerbaijan, that’s not the case either, but just about every male serves in the military for a couple years. I learned a little about military service one day as I was walking down the road with my friends in Ceyranbatan.

My host family just so happened to be riding in a relative’s car, and they stopped and yelled for me to join them. No wasn’t an option. So we jetted out of town towards Baku, and I wasn’t sure where the heck we were going. Let me also add that at this time, I could speak barely any Azerbaijani, but I did have my dictionary. My host dad took it and flipped through the pages. He eventually said, “military service.” In Azerbaijani, the word is “əsgərlik”. That didn’t help me too much, though. You begin to think weird things when you’re riding in a car, you don’t know where you’re going, and somebody tells you “military service”. Oh well, what the heck was I going to do? Jump out?

So we arrived at our destination. As I could’ve expected, it was a military post. We got out of the car and greeted Elhan, my oldest host brother, whom I’d never met. Ah, I got it now. We were just visiting Elhan. We walked into the mess hall and sat down. Unfortunately, the electricity was out, so we sat in the dark and chatted with him. I, however, did more listening than chatting.

Whatever the case, it was interesting to observe. Elhan’s about twenty years old, three years younger than I am. No doubt military service ain’t a picnic, and here was this man, sitting in the dark, talking with the folks from home. It can’t be easy, but he seemed to have a good attitude.

I’ve wondered why countries have required military service. I imagine it’s to ensure the country’s protection, but I can see there being an advantage for those doing the service. It seems to me that if there was one way to jump-start a person into manhood, it would be this. If I had done military service before college and all that, there’s a chance I would’ve been a stronger, more mature man. I mean, it’s not a guarantee, but there’s a chance. It would’ve also been good to know that I was needed in my country, regardless of what came out of my service, although that doesn’t make me or anyone else exempt from making his/herself counted.

Su yox

2008-12-05T03:49:00.000-08:00

Few things irritate you more than approaching the sink, turning the knob, hearing a slight suction/gurgling sound, and seeing no water flow from the spout. Dang, Man, I was really looking forward to washing my hands / taking a shower / cleaning the dishes (although I don’t do much of that in this house) / having a drink of water / etc. / etc. You also can’t help but get perturbed when your sweetheart host mother looks at you and says, “Su yox!” (“no water!”). What do you mean we don’t have water? And why don’t we have water? And when are we going to get the water back? These are the thoughts that enter your head when you’re in this situation, and they aren’t completely unjustified.

But then you have to think a little bit. First, it’s not your host mother’s fault. It’s not like she called the water company (or whoever’s in control) and said, “Eh, we just don’t feel like water today.” Secondly, let’s get real here. At least we have running water. Drinkable running water is there pretty much all the time, and that cannot be said everywhere. I thought of that as I was on my way to the school this morning and saw people filling up large receptacles with water. Okay, so they had to go and fetch the agua from there instead of turning the knob at the sink in their homes, but in several places that’s every day, whether they like it or not. I once heard from a woman who lived in the Gambia that, in the place where she was living, the water would be delivered. It could be anytime, day or night, and the people would have to come out and get their water that way.

Alright, look. I ain’t no bleeding heart lecturing martyr. I like my hot water. I like my glass of H20. I like my instant coffee. But it’s important to remember that water doesn’t just come from nowhere. Making the water hot isn’t always as simple as turning the knob. What we need isn’t always at our fingertips, and, well, there’s just no harm in knowing that.

The Amazing Electric Box

2008-12-05T03:47:00.000-08:00

If there’s anything that’ll make you feel like you’re in a vintage science fiction movie, it’s this little (or, should I say, not so little) mechanism in which I plug my electronics. Yes, it’s true. We’re advised to use one of these “voltage regulators” if we value our laptop computers. Seeing as I got mine the summer of two thousand six, I’d prefer to hold onto it for a while, and unless I’d prefer it get fried by a less-than-even electric current, I was recommended to utilize this contraption.

However, would others agree when I say it might not be necessary? Don’t get me wrong. People use surge protectors and the like all the time, but just look at this thing. It costs thirty-five manat. That’s roughly forty-three dollars and seventy-five cents. Not chump change, especially on my salary, or whatever it is we receive as payment. Let me also add that Josh Weil, an administrator, told us at a hub day that these machines could very well be superfluous expenditures. Now, granted, he’s the one dishing us our money regularly, but we won’t hold that against him.

Oh, right, and don’t let me forget this. My laptop holds a charge for about, oh, forty minutes now. Oh, how fantastic. I’m glad it’s been in good hands. That’s not to say explicitly that the regulator I bought has failed, but, hmm, there’s a chance. And if that chance just so happens to be true, then what the Hell is this clunky contraption doing on my floor with my computer plugged into it (as I type this, might I add)? If this thing actually hasn’t protected my computer from harm, then it would better serve as a doorstop, or booster chair, or one of those blocky things short people use to reach the urinal.

Alright, I will now shove all bitterness aside. Whatever the case, I’m still unsure of this thing’s effectiveness, and instead of pointing a finger and throwing the regulator out the window, I will hold onto it for the duration of my service. Rather than scoff at its large size and weight (And, really, why is this thing so heavy? What’s going on in there?), I will embrace the blockyness and accept it as, if anything, a novelty of my Azerbaijan experience. I mean, really, what’s a few extra pounds when you can add some fun to the mix…and perhaps protect your computer as well?

A.T.M. Machines

2008-12-01T04:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, folks, as I sit here again in the Internet café, I wanted to write a quick note about something I experienced, in its fullest form, just a little bit ago.

Yes, anyone who has been serving in the Peace Corps in Azerbaijan knows what I’m talking about when I create a web log entry with the title “A.T.M. Machines”. It’s an experience just about any time you approach an International Bank of Azerbaijan A.T.M.

You see, many folks in Azerbaijan have a different style when it comes to these fancy machines. Anyone with a checking account in the United States has become accustomed to the “wait in line for your turn” method. I mean, it works okay, but why do that when you can swarm the machine, crowding around the civilian who’s taken on the role of “operator”, so you can hand him/her your card and he/she can do it for you? Oh yeah, let’s not forget that if, for some reason, you’ve brought multiple cards with you, you can stand there as said operator punches in your PIN number and withdraws your desired amount of cash. Honestly, it was really something to stand within the cluster and watch A.T.M. cards get passed up to a lady who was doin’ the withdrawin’ for folks standing by.

Okay, let me back up a little. This is not a criticism of how A.T.M. machine etiquette works in Azerbaijan. I mean, heck, as long as you get your money, it’s cool, and let me also mention that I don’t hand up my card like others do. I don’t take it that far. I just wait my turn, whenever that is.

It’s really just interesting to see how people deal with certain kinds of technology in different cultures. You’d think things simply follow a set standard, but then you get surprised. Truth be told, a lot of Azerbaijanis receive pension money, and there’s a chance many of them have never operated an A.T.M. before. I guess they figure a more communal technique to pulling out cash is perfectly fine, and I can’t blame them. I mean, what if you all the sudden had a bank account and an A.T.M. machine dropped into your town? You’d have to figure it out, and, for them, this is what works. I’ll just try and not approach the automated teller machine on pension day.

Sağ olun

2008-11-30T02:27:00.001-08:00

You will hear this phrase a billion times (and then some) in Azerbaijan. Sağ olun (or, more commonly, sağ ol) literally means ‘be healthy.’ It also means ‘thank you’ and ‘good-bye.’ Oh yeah, and it’s also what you say before you take a drink with friends. It’s a phrase with various meanings, and I’ve given it a bit of thought.

Why, you may ask? Well, it actually dates back some time ago, a couple months, give or take. My buddy Charlie who lives down the street just so happened to be locked out of his house (by the grandmother, who was in the house. We won’t delve into that subject here.), so we walked together down to my host family’s house, opened the heavy, metal gate, and walked onto the front patio to see my host dad and mom firing up the wood grill. They looked at us and said, “kabobs!” I can’t say I was disappointed, and neither could Charlie. So we sent a text message or two to our friends in our cluster, telling then we probably wouldn’t be able to get together for a movie that night, and kicked back for a tasty meal.

And a tasty meal it was. They grilled the meat mighty fine, set up the table outside, since the weather was nice, put out the plates, vodka, and whatnot, and Charlie and I spent time jacking around on the patio with Maharab and Nerman. It was delicious, quality time spent with Charlie and the host family. Heck, Our cross-the-street neighbor Abdullah even showed up, no big deal.

Anyway, as we enjoyed a fun night at the house, and we clearly had limited language skills, one of the things we could say was ‘sağ ol,’ especially as we were taking another drink of vodka. We would say it in thanksgiving to my host family, and eventually Charlie would say it as he walked out the door to his house. It has a few meanings, but I find it interesting that the same phrase for ‘good-bye’ is the same phrase for ‘thank you.’ Would you say that has any bearing on the culture? I would dare to say yes, because it seems like, when one enters a home, chances are he should not only say ‘good-bye’ but also ‘thank you,’ because it’s important to treat a guest very well in this country, and how convenient it is that there is one phrase that includes both.

And I don’t just pinpoint Azerbaijan in making this analysis, either. I was raised by parents who also take hospitality seriously. I used to wonder why the heck we needed to wash the sheets and all that before a guest entered our home. It seemed unnecessary, but little things like that: making sure they have a nice place to sleep, food to eat (whether they’re hungry or not), something to drink, heck, maybe even a shower to use, these things don’t just happen when someone enters a home. It takes effort on the part of the hosts, and, to me, the fact that one can say ‘good-bye’ and ‘thank-you’ at the same time makes all the sense.

The American National Dish

2008-11-30T02:26:00.001-08:00

Can somebody please tell me what the heck this is?

Yes, regrettably it’s true. We Peace Corps folk in Azerbaijan are frequently asked this question. It’s nothing against the local crowd that asks it. They’re curious, and, frankly, they’re also from a much smaller country with distinctive (and tasty) national dishes.

However, when an American is confronted with such a question, he can be stumped. Now, I can say that when I was asked this question (more than once in a day) at my future school in Qumlaq, what first came to my mind was a hamburger and fries, so I explained that. It seemed to be pretty standard, but how often do you really eat that back in the States? I mean, I love it, don’t get me wrong, but if you’re eating a juicy burger and fried taters on a regular basis, you’re setting yourself up for problems down the road.

So, was I fair in telling these students that the national dish of the United States of America is a hamburger and French fries? My answer now is no. What I should’ve said was that the United States doesn’t have a national dish. It’s not feasible to pick one national meal from one of the world’s most diverse countries, not to mention the fact that it contains about three hundred million people.

When one heads off and does something like Peace Corps in another country, an image of the United States is not only what you give them, but it’s what they give you. Now, what in tarnation does that mean? It means there’s a good chance a particular vision of the United States and what it is like will already be instilled in some people’s heads before you arrive. You show up in a community, perhaps as the first U.S. citizen these folks have ever seen, and you have an Asian background. What? Wait, that’s not supposed to happen. We ordered an American, not an Asian. Well, it turns out the United States has people of Asian ancestry. Go figure. In fact, while many, many people in the U.S. are eating hamburgers on a given day, several others are eating kung pow chicken.

To be honest, I feel for the wonderful people in Azerbaijan that receive us every year. It might not be pleasant to receive what you did not expect, but how cool is it that we get to expose the rich facets of our great country? While they educate us, we educate them. How great is that?

I still stand by my fondness for burgers and fries, by the way.

My Future Home

2008-11-27T02:38:00.000-08:00

Hello, everyone! It’s been a little while since I’ve written in the ol’ web log, and I find this to be a pretty opportune time to give an update.

At this moment, I’m not typing, but, instead, I’m writing in a composition book (I’ll type it later, but that’s obvious, right?). My computer’s not with me because I’m on a three-day visit at the village in Azerbaijan where I’ll do my volunteer service! That’s pretty exciting, eh? I will be serving in a “rayon” of Azerbaijan called Oğuz. Let me give you the description of the rayon that the Peace Corps provided me (To be honest, it’ll be the first time I’ve read the description in it’s entirety as well.).

“Oghuz region was established as Vartashen on Augurst [August] 8, 1930. Vartashen had been the center of the region till 1961. It was established the status of the city type settlement from 1961-1968 and the status of a city in 1969. At the first session of the Supreme Council of the Republic of Azerbaijan in February of 1991 the region was renamed into Oghuz and Vardanly village into Kerimli. Oghuz is a region with ancient and rich history. The book of geography composed of 17 volumes and written by Greek historian Strabon who lived in the 1st century B.C. provided the full coverage of the Caucasus Albania and showed that the Sheki-Zagatala zone that include[s] of [the] region of Oghuz was the place of the [a] dense settlement of people 20-25 centuries ago (that is 2500 years ago [Thank you, Peace Corps, for clearing that up.]). Prominent archeologist[s], coming from Oghuz Saleh Gaziyev proved by the patterns of material culture discovered during the researches on the territory of the region in 1956-1959 that the people lived in collectives on this area in the Neolithic Era (that is 6-7 thousand years ago). Saleh Gaziyev conducted the archeological researches south of the Vardanly (present Kerimli) and Garabaldyr villages in 1948 and discovered ancient settlements and cemeteries. The ancient scientist discovered the following material culture patterns related to the period 2500-3000 years ago in the monuments of Dash gutu (stone box): a bronze knife, lance point, bashlyks [Don’t ask me what those are.], different jewelries (belt, bracelet, ring, pearls and others), ceramic patterns, and others. Some of them have a history of 500 years. The ancient graves of the unknown age belonging to the Oghuz tribes mentioned in the epos Kitabi dede Gorgut [?] and differing from other modern graves with their length are still preserved in the north of Filfilli and Bash Dashaghyl villages of the region. The ancient necropolises of the Kerimli, Garabaldyr, [and] Djalud villages and Oghuz city, the GKhachmaz Govur tower of the 7th century, the Mukhakh tower constructed in the 9th century, the Albanian temple of the early Middle Ages of Oghuz and Djalud villages also provide information of the past of the region. The names Vartashen, Oghuz, Maza, Vengey, Padar, Sazur, Shahra and other toponymies [whatever those are] date back to 12-14 thousand years ago to the times of Avesta and prove the area of the region to be part of Zardush.”

Ha ha. It appears to be a translation from Azerbaijani, and it can be hard to decipher certain words and whatnot. But you get the gist of the history and all that, right?

I can honestly say that I almost feel like I’m in another country. It’s amazing how, in this small nation, there exists such diversity. Some time ago, I visited the rayon of Ismayilli, which is on the way to Oğuz. Clearly I observed a similar geographical change on my way to Oğuz as I experienced on my way to Ismayilli. The elevation and general environment change drastically. The area of Sumgait, for the most part, is flat and not too green, but Oğuz is almost something out of a fairy tale. It’s beautiful, with mountains and rivers all around. According to my host dad, tourists come here in the summertime (Not too many come in the wintertime, though, if I had to guess.).

Culturally, it appears to be different as well, but that also may have something to do with this particular village where I will be serving (which is called Qumlaq, by the way. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.). Nonetheless, I’ve noticed a change, however slight it may be, in how folks dress, how the teachers interact with the students, how a girl interacts with a boy (Believe me. You would notice, too.), etc. Of course, it’s hard to have a firm grip after being here for just a couple days. I shouldn’t worry, though. I have plenty of time left to do that.

Qumlaq has a small, friendly school, and I’m grateful for that. It has about three hundred twenty-three students and forty-eight teachers. The class bell is literally a bell rung by hand outside that bears some resemblance to what you’d hear on the old family farm when dinner’s ready.

My future host family here in Qumlaq consists of a mom (Aybəniz), dad (Fedya), daughter (Hökümə), and son (Rustam). The daughter is about fourteen and the son is about eight (I should double check these ages (and their names)). The father is firm is his Muslim faith, which is wonderful. He doesn’t drink or smoke, and it was something to hear his chanting this morning…and afternoon. They also live on a beautiful piece of property. When I asked Fedya what he did for a living, he simply said that the home provides what the family needs. They live on a farm, fully equipped with chickens, turkeys, cows, sheep, hazelnuts, pecans, fruit, and whatever else. Aybəniz works somewhere, but I’m not exactly sure what that is at this point.

Anyway, this is, so far, a glimpse of what’s to come. It’s nice in that I now have an idea of what these two years of service will be like. I also think I speak for other trainees when I say that I look forward to actually starting the two years of service that haven’t even begun.

Toy – Part Two

2008-11-14T02:38:00.000-08:00

Alright, so we’ve gone over the first kind of toy pretty well, I’d say. Sounds like a big, fun party, eh? But, little did I know that there’s another toy that’s also quite common. The party’s quite similar, but it celebrates something different.

Various cultures have festivities for when a boy becomes a man. In the United States, the most common occasion I can think of is a Barmitzfah, when a young Jewish person’s coming into adulthood is celebrated. This type of event is also quite common in Azerbaijan. It’s the ‘kiçik toy (sorry if this is incorrect)’, roughly translated as ‘toy for a young person.’

One of the first explanations I received on this type of toy was from my host brother, who put it bluntly. The usual gestures for a toy were given, like moving the arms in a dancing motion, but he also formed one of his hands in the shape of a scissors and made like he was cutting the end of one of his fingers on the other hand. Getting the picture? If not, I, too, will put it bluntly, and inform you that a ‘kiçik toy’ is when a young man is circumcised.

The only gesture I remember giving in return was a cringe and an, “Oooohhhh!” signifying the pain it must cause. My buddy Jordyn has also been to one of these, and he told me it more or less goes like this: The young man is the king of the party. It’s his day. The festivities commence like a regular toy, with the food, dancing, speeches from friends and family at the front of the room with the microphone (I might not have mentioned that yet.), vodka, etc. The boy sits at the front of the big room on a stage. When all’s said and done at the party, he eventually goes home, where the doctor applies an anesthetic of some sort and the snipping takes place.

Now let’s reflect here. What if you were in this position? What would be going through your head during this big bash, knowing your circumcision would follow? I went to my neighbor’s toy, and he’s around five or six years old. As far as I could tell, he was perfectly happy. However, Jordyn informed me that the boy at the toy he attended didn’t look too happy. I guess it just varies from person to person.

Nevertheless, I think this is a pretty cool occasion. How great is it that friends and family all come together to celebrate a boy becoming a man. I believe that’s an important thing to recognize, and, as far as my own case goes, it would have been nice for someone to formally let me know when I was no longer a boy. Ha ha, just kidding. Of course, I think many (if not all) would agree that Abdullah (the boy whose toy I attended) still has plenty of childhood left, but he has still, in fact, reached a pertinent stage in his life. The following day, I visited him at his house across the road from mine. He was lying in bed as the party was going on outside. He, of course, had plenty of love and attention, and I gave him a little money (also a tradition). Later that day, a couple Peace Corps Trainees and I came to the house, and we were warmly welcomed, as expected. There’s something great about seeing my friend Charlie kneel down and visit with his neighborhood friend at his bedside. It makes me feel even more like we are part of the community.

Toy – Part One

2008-11-14T02:37:00.000-08:00

Okay, before I explain why I’m giving this entry that particular name, I want you to ponder for a moment what a ‘toy’ is.

Finished? Alright, well, in Azerbaijani, a ‘toy’ can be a couple things. Two, by my count. If you look in your handy Azerbaijani-to-English dictionary, a ‘toy’ is defined as a wedding. Ah, I see. A wedding. What a cool name for a wedding.

But let me get something straight here. In Azerbaijan, a toy isn’t merely a wedding ceremony one goes to every now and then when a friend or relative gets married, followed by a reception. Oh, no. A toy is a party. A rowdy party. A party Azerbaijanis love to attend. And they happen all the time. Seriously, all the time. Now, remember, a toy can celebrate a couple things, but I will concentrate on the ‘bride and groom’ toy first.

So my host family said one day, earlier in training, “Let’s go to a toy in a few days.” Wait. It wasn’t quite like that. It was more like, “In a few days, we’re going to a toy.” They were excited, and I’d already heard at that point that toys were essential events one must experience in Azerbaijan. So I put on my Sunday best and went.

I guess I expected it, but we didn’t go to the actual ceremony. We went to the party. Everyone wants to go to the party. We walked into the reception hall in Sumgait, which was already pretty full, and took a seat at one of the tables. Food and shots of vodka were being served all around (except the vodka wasn’t served to the ladies), and the bride and groom sat there, on an elevated surface at the front of the room, in all their glory. They had a nice border decoration surrounding them, and they looked dignified. To be honest with you, I’d say the folks below, merrily eating, drinking, and dancing, were having more fun than the newly married. I suppose that, as a bride and groom, you are more like the hosts of the toy, while your friends and family are the ones invited and welcome to carouse in raucous merriment. I’d say that’s a good reason to want to go to one of these events.

Anyway, I went along with the crowd, and as you could guess, plenty of folks were delighted to have a foreigner join in on the fun. I sat at the end of the table and ate several platters of delicious Azerbaijani food, with several shots of vodka in between. I appreciate my host mother’s caution with my drinking, though. She would intermittently glance at me and tell me to keep it under control. This was a good thing, seeing as plenty of others were drinking more than they ought to.

Along with the eating and drinking was the dancing. Azerbaijani folk love to get the music going (especially with the zurna, a long horn instrument that makes a bagpipe-esque sound, and the sach (most likely spelled wrong), a lovely-sounding guitar-type instrument) and move their arms to and fro in dancing revelry. And when a white American comes into the picture, they welcome him with open, waving arms. I love the Azerbaijani dancing style. It’s not overly complicated, and I don’t make too much of a fool of myself when I do it. However, another component of the classic toy is a video camera. Somebody walks around the camera and films what’s going on, with a short-circuit connection to television screens all over the room. So, when the white dude decides to get up and dance, he becomes the camera magnet. My friend Laura, who was at the same wedding, took a picture of me on thee T.V. screen. wonderful.

One typical characteristic of a toy that I didn’t see was a fight. I can remember our Azerbaijani safety officer telling us that a fight can break out at a toy, I’m guessing due to the crowd of gentlemen imbibing great amounts and talking smack. Unfortunately, though, I wasn’t on the lookout when one occurred, although Laura told me there was a small scuffle.

All in all, a toy is a good time, and I’m glad to have experienced one. But what about that other kind of toy?

Məktəb

2008-10-26T04:13:00.000-07:00

A large portion of our training takes place here, the school, or məktəb (Remember how those ə’s are pronounced.). We’re fortunate enough, here in Ceyranbatan Two, to be in a pretty small community with a modestly sized school, and, to boot, it’s a pretty new school, from the looks of it. If you look around the building, you will see several signs saying “From the people of Japan”. That’s in English too, by the way. Thanks to Japan’s generosity, we have a nice facility.

Just about every day, except “Hub Days” and Sundays, we walk over to this building for our language lessons. They’re scheduled from nine to one in the afternoon. Now, as far as language lessons go, I have nothing to complain about. They’re what you’d expect. And there’s another thing I’m happy to not have to complain about, and that’s the students. Now, seeing as I may eventually be committed to two years of volunteering in a school, complaining about the students before I even teach them would probably be a bad sign. Nonetheless, I’m happy to say that the students at the school in Ceyranbatan Two are well behaved. That’s not the case everywhere. I’ve heard about students constantly opening and closing the trainees’ classroom doors, sliding notes under the doors, throwing rocks at trainees, etc. And, of course, there’re the constant “hellos” that trainees receive, iterated at an elevated volume, with the stress on the first syllable, so, as a trainee runs the gauntlet of children, he must withstand the onslaught of “HEllo,” “HEllo,” “HEllo” that comes his way. It’s cute at first, but only at first. None of these are encouraging factors of what lies ahead of us, but if I wanted an easy teaching job, I guess I would’ve gone…well…nowhere.

Our language lessons are taught by a gentleman named Qaymar (pronounced Guy•mar. In Azerbaijani, ‘q’ is pronounced like ‘g’.). He’s in his early twenties and has done his military service and worked on offshore oil sites. He’s about as friendly as they come. He almost always has a big smile going, and he also takes our language progress seriously. Our cluster is giving him some help, too. He recently asked us to help him with his writing because he wants to study in The United States. Charlie has already helped him outline an essay, and we hope the best for him.

Life at the school is good, and we hope to make more and more progress in our language before the end of training.

The Fam

2008-10-26T04:12:00.000-07:00

This was a much-awaited moment for many of us, or, rather, all of us. Nothing says “exciting” like meeting the host family with whom you’ll be living for two and a half months, and all you can say is, “Hello,” “My name is John.” “What is your name?” “I have a brother.” “Do you have a brother?” “I want food.” On second thought, “exciting” might be the wrong word, but I can’t think of anything that fits the description just right.

In fact, as we were all sitting in the meeting hall at the Sheraton in Philadelphia, one of my final questions to a returned volunteer was, “How awkward is it going to be?” That question was followed by much laughter. Frank, the returned volunteer, even laughed a bit, and we all understood that it would be plenty awkward, which in itself is amusing.

As we all got on our respective buses (Some were marshrutkas, which will be explained another time.), it was as if we were cattle, wondering around like idiots, waiting to be carted off to be slaughtered. In fact, we’ve noticed thus far that the host family experience is much like being a large, two legged animal living in someone’s house. We wonder around with minimal communication skills, can barely iterate anything to our hosts, and wait to be fed. You can thank my buddy Charlie for that observation.

Whatever the case, we rolled along from the Aqua Park (wherever that was) to the area around the city of Sumgait. Sumgait will be our hub city for training (After that, God knows where we’ll go.). During training, the sixty-one of us will be divided into “clusters”. That is, small groups of us (about five, more or less) will be in various towns around Sumgait. My cluster is one of two that lives in Ceyranbatan (Pronouned Jay•rahn•bah•tahn. In Azerbaijani, c’s are pronounced like j’s.). We are Ceyranbatan Two, while Ceyranbatan One lives across the highway (which connects Sumgait with Baku, the capitol).

Anyway, one by one, each person that would be training in Ceyranbatan (One and Two) was dropped off at their host family’s house. It was fun to help the trainees with their luggage and see them off at their new homes. We have trainees with various living arrangements, from large, nice houses, to apartments.

My time eventually came. In fact, I think my house was the last one. We soon discovered, upon arrival at the house, that the “ana” (“mother” in Azerbaijani, pronounced “ah•nah”, with the stress on the final syllable) was not there, but it was okay, because she works at the school (not as a teacher, though. She lets people in the door and cleans around. I’m not sure of the job title.). She soon arrived and let me in. She showed me to my room, and as I unpacked my things (I was fortunate to be able to unpack my own things. That’s not the case in every household.), she offered me, as we all could guess, çay (pronounced “chai”, “tea” in Azerbaijani. This is a very important word.). I of course said yes, and she promptly brought me a pot ‘o çay with candy. It’s important to note that, in the Azerbaijani eating process, tea and candy come before the meal…and after…and maybe in the middle sometimes too.

And, as expected, she then offered me a meal. “Yemək” (yee•mach. The ‘ə’ is pronounced like the ‘a’ in “apple”. In almost all Azerbaijani words, by the way, the stress is on the last syllable.) she said, with her empty hand motioning toward her open mouth. I accepted again, and food was brought.

I took a break from unpacking and took a seat in my new room. As I was unpacking, a small table was moved from the middle of my room to the wall, and I sat there with my food and çay in front of me. It was a typical meal, soup with potatoes and chicken, with bread. My room is quite nice, about the same size as my room in The United States, with two pretty rugs covering the floor. For some reason, as I looked around and thought about this new arrangement, I began to feel emotional. In fact, I could easily have cried right then and there. Fatigue could have had something to do with it, and the fact that I had had plenty the night before.

As I was eating, my host mother came back into my room. She got on her knees in front of me, the way one does when they want to speak earnestly with someone, and we had a conversation. During orientation, part of the first few days of language training we had consisted of learning how to tell about your family back home. I understood why now, because she wanted to know. In my terrible Azerbaijani, I was able to say that I have a sister, brother, mom, and dad.

Soon after, she made it clear that I, the mysterious guest in her home, was now her son. That’s not to say she was stealing me from my American parents, but what’s important to note about our host family experiences in this country is that, as long as we’re in their houses, we are their children.

My host family consists of four people: Ata (“Dad,” I don’t remember what his name is.), Ana (Melahet), and two brothers, Nerman (12) and Maharab (17). These are some of the finest people I’ve ever known. Ata is a good man, works construction (as does Maharab). We’ve also had plenty of vodka together. Ana is one of the sweetest people I‘ve ever met. She loves to talk and teach me as much Azerbaijani as possible. Nerman is twelve and going to school, and he is also a fine young man. At any given time, he will make sure I have something to eat and çay to drink. Maharab is also a great guy. At seventeen, he is already working, although he is off to military service in about two months. I forgot to mention that I have a third host brother, Elhan, who’s currently doing his service.

I’m very pleased with the host family aspect of training thus far, and with good reason. They’ve been great.

2008-10-19T04:21:00.001-07:00

Here is some useful information.

Mailing Address:

John Gahan, PCT
AZ 1000
Main P.O. Box 77
Peace Corps
Baku, Azerbaijan

This will be my mailing address until DECEMBER NINTH 2008.

Phone Number:

(051) 889-97-82

The country code for Azerbaijan is 994.

Waterslides

2008-10-19T04:19:00.000-07:00

Well, well, it’s…eh…October seventeenth (Of course, that’s not what the actual web log says, because I’m writing this on my computer in my host family’s house and will copy and paste it onto “the internet” later.), and I’m getting around to my second web log entry. Like my last web log (which failed), I’m slacking big time on this one. HOWEVER, what’s important at this juncture is that I’m writing entry number two and not letting the burden of starting it hold me back. As for future entries, it’s up in the air.

Anyway, let’s go back a few weeks, to…oh boy…September…twenty-third? or thereabouts. I can’t remember. I guess we left Philadelphia on the twenty-third, meaning we arrived in Baku on the twenty-fourth. Right? We had a nice bus ride to J.F.K. Airport (which entailed The Sandlot, the most American movie we could find, and a cruise through Brooklyn). I couldn’t complain about our two flights with Lufthansa. How can you gripe about flight attendants back-peddling through your aisle after dinner with two bottles in their hands, saying, “More wine?”

We were tired nonetheless, but I perked up when we arrived in Baku. Folks from the Peace Corps welcomed us at the airport, including current volunteers. We were quickly given delicious sack lunches and herded onto buses, which would take us to a place of sheer joy, Aqua Park. I’ll get to that is a second.

It was dark outside, and I’d say most of us were too exhausted to deal with culture shock. For most of the bus ride, I stared outside, trying to make out what we were passing. What caught my eye the most were the oil pump jacks and what seemed like smoke coming out of the ground. It was mysterious, like we were heading into much unknown. It was true.

We got off the bus and were kindly reminded of how folks drive around the world when we crossed the street, but at this point, it was okay, because we were at the Aqua Park. Now, like I said before, we were pretty tuckered out, so our new surroundings (At least I don’t think.) didn’t hit us too hard. This point was reassured by the fact that our first few days would be spent at the Aqua Park. Wait. You don’t know what that is?

The Aqua Park is a hotel…somewhere. I’m not so sure where it is, but I do know that it’s pretty far from anything. It sits right by the Caspian Sea, and the rooms are pretty nice. It also has, like the name implies, an “aqua park,” with three big water slides, one of which ends in one of those giant toilet bowl type things, like they have (or had?) at Splashtown in Houston. That one wasn’t working, though. It also had a lower, kind of spooky amusement park area and a disco. Seems pretty Peace Corps-ish, eh? Whatever the case, could there be a better place to spend out first few days in country?

The first five or so days in Azerbaijan was our “orientation.” It allowed us to…well…orient. It consisted of meetings and whatnot from morning to night, touching on themes like language (important), being a successful volunteer, and aspects of Azerbaijani culture. We also got to go down water slides. All in all, I enjoyed orientation and spending a few more days with the people in “AZ6,” as we’re called. After orientation, it would be somewhat rare for us all to be together, and that brings us to September twenty-ninth, when we’d move in with our host families.

Sheraton, Cheesesteak, and Not Being Involved with an Intelligence Agency

2008-09-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

All of these things, and then some, help characterize my first couple days with Peace Corps. Let's start from when I packed, at around 8:30 the night before leaving home.

Let's get serious here. Number one, I've never been really on the ball about anything. Number two, I mean that about packing especially. I've come to the realization that analyzing the packing process far in advance, maybe even packing once, taking everything out, and packing again, isn't worth the time, at least for me. I wanted to enjoy my last moments at home, so I laid out my luggage the night before, went through the room, and packed what I would need.

However, I must admit that my parents and I thought it through ahead of time. I bought some new socks (a few pairs of which were given by my sister for my birthday. Thanks, Catherine Grace.), hiking boots (Tims, just 'cause I'm like that), running shoes, and maybe some other stuff I can't think of right now. I also talked it over with Mom and Dad and weeded out a few things and put some other things in, so, no, I'm not that much of a slacker.

Anyway, with my stuff packed up and a so-so attitude about what was coming (I mean, come on, who wouldn't have doubts the night before he leaves?), I got up at around five Saturday morning to roll out with Mom and Dad to the Austin airport to catch my flight to Philadelphia.

After landing and walking back and forth like an idiot outside baggage claim at the Philly airport, I finally figured out how to get the shuttle to the Sheraton (It sounds retarded, but...okay, maybe it is.) I wasn't feeling quite as stressed at this point, and the enthusiastic chatter of fellow volunteers on the shuttle eased my nerves even more.

We arrived at the hotel and completed and turned in some paperwork. We soon had our first meeting, all sixty-one of us (I couldn't believe it.). A great speech was given by the gentleman who would be conducting most of our meetings and activities, Kibala Wewegame (Sorry, Kibala, if I've misspelled your name.). He spoke with great passion and enthusiasm. You could tell that he meant what he was saying. For a man from Sri Lanka to speak so highly of Peace Corps and the United States really meant a lot to me.

Saturday and yesterday consisted of meetings that addressed several themes, from dealing with attention to Peace Corps policies (one of which is, yes, not being involved with an intelligence agency before joining. I'd only be so cool as to say I have.).

I must say I'm very pleased with our group of volunteers. We come from all over the United States and vary greatly in age. For many of the volunteers, I feel I'm almost looking in the mirror, while I really look up to many of them as well.

Last night was a final night of revelry before leaving the United States for some time. Wanting to enjoy the States one last time, I had a liberal amount of Yuengling Lager. It wasn't as much a desire as it was an obligation.

Staging's pretty much done at this point, and I'm due to be downstairs packed in twenty-seven minutes. Perhaps I should get on that. The next time I write. I'll be in Azerbaijan.